Within, Without
by FeistyFeist
Summary: They had found the boy. But just because he's found, doesn't mean he's still not lost. Continuation
1. Chapter 1

Back again! Please read and review. Thanks very much.

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"I'm so far from home

It seems like yesterday

I started to roam

I'll be back round again

When I can't stay too long

I'll be there just in time to tell you

That I'm moving on…"

XXXXX

August 29, 1967

7:13 pm

"Let's give them some time," Jessup suggests quietly. A click and then the door shuts, leaving the three of us alone.

I tighten my grip on Ponyboy as his sobs subside, his body racking against mine. He sniffles once and buries his face closer to my chest. "I'm sorry," he croaks.

A pain goes through me. "Ponyboy, you can't do this to yourself. You hear me?" I stroke his sweaty hair, wishing he'd look up.

Soda, on the opposite side of us, gingerly settles himself on the bed next to Pony. His eyes are red but his voice calm. "Oh honey. You never have to be sorry for this."

Then Soda's eyes reach mine and I nod slowly, letting Soda do what he does best.

"You can't blame yourself, Pone," Soda murmurs, reaching out to take Pony's shoulder as I slowly release my grip on him. "We're so glad to have you back." Gently, he pulls Pony up to face us and then wraps his arms around him, something I know he has wanted to do ever since we both entered the room.

When Ponyboy draws away from Soda's embrace he stares at us. Tear marks make long trails down his ashen face. "I – I never thought they'd find me. I didn't think anyone would come."

Soda shushes him, but his hands tremble at Pony's words. His one fear has come to a head. _Dar…what if he's out there hurt and alone? __Waiting for us but no one's coming. He's going to think I just gave up and left him-_

"Pone…" I scoot closer to him, wanting to evaluate the damage that has been done to my brother. "You know we'd never give up, don't you? No matter how long it took."

He shakes his head and covers his eyes again. "Yeah…No…I don't know, Darry…" When he speaks his voice is raspy, strained. It is then I notice the bruising around his throat, the way he shields himself with his arms.

I notice all this with a sinking feeling in my stomach, knowing that he's going to hurt a lot more before he's better.

I push this fact aside and do what I do best. Stay calm. Stay together. "Kiddo," I say, taking his hands, unfolding them from his protective stance. "No one will ever hurt you again. He can't. He's dead."

"What're you talking about Darry?" Ponyboy nearly yells, his weak voice bordering on hysterics. He jerks away from my grip.

Soda and I stare at him in shocked silence.

"He ain't dead! He killed him and he ain't dead!"

XXXXX

August 29, 1967

7:45 pm

"…So the younger man…" Benji checks his notes, "…whom you refer to as Freckle, entered the room with the intention of aiding your rescue?"

Ponyboy looks at Benji as if he is stupid. "Yeah, that's what I said." The boy tugs at the edge of his sheet. "Then he came – Blonde – and shot him."

Darry coughs nervously, shifting in his chair.

The other brother, Sodapop, keeps a firm arm around Ponyboy's shoulder. He whispers something in Pony's ear. Relief flickers in Ponyboy's eyes.

"And after that?" I speak up; knowing the end of this conversation is near.

Soda shoots me a death glare. "You know what happened."

"I want to hear it from him." I stand at the foot of the bed. "Pony?"

For the second time tonight I am running through the end of Ponyboy's story. Not that I doubt the boy, I want to make sure we miss nothing. Now that we have a second – living – suspect running around, it's my goal to catch the son of a bitch as fast as possible.

"He choked me." Pony's hands unconsciously drift to his throat. "Then he heard you guys in the house and ran."

"Can we go over the description once more?" I ask, nodding at Benji who readies his pencil.

"Blonde, tall. A sharp nose…" Ponyboy recounts staccato-like. "He had blue – ice blue eyes, kinda like Dally used to."

Darry speaks up. "An old friend of ours."

I nod, knowing all too well who Dallas Winston was. Impatient, I ask, "Anything else you can think of? Scars? Tattoo?"

"I can't think of anything…else…" Ponyboy drawls off.

The boy suddenly grimaces and shuts his eyes. "You don't – you don't think he's going to come back and find me do you? Because if you can't find him and he's out there-"

His voice gets higher and scratchier by the second; Benji shoots me a look.

"Pone," Darry cautions. "You're not supposed to talk so much." I see a semblance of the kid he was before this as Ponyboy rolls his eyes at his brother's admonition.

Standing up, Darry rubs his palms on the front of his jeans. "We need to finish this."

"Ok." But I don't give in that easily. "Tomorrow then."

Darry looks at me, his mouth a thin white line. At this moment, seeing his brother react painfully to the questions, it's a lot harder for Darry Curtis to let me grill Ponyboy.

"Tomorrow," I reiterate.

He may not like it but knows it has to be done.

"Fine." Darry nods his agreement.

XXXXX

August 29, 1967

8:32 pm

A hush falls over the room as the nurse attempts to administer an IV to Ponyboy. "I'm sorry," she apologizes for the second time. "We gotta get this in, hon."

She looks at Soda helplessly. "He needs liquids."

"Just do it," Soda mutters, his teeth clenched. We have fought with Ponyboy for the last half hour, finally getting him to come around to the whole needle-idea. I understand Soda's need to just get this over with, sparing our brother the delay any longer.

The nurse, as gently as possible, slides the needle into the top of Ponyboy's hand. Ponyboy lets out a yelp, but Soda tries to still him by talking softly. Pony keeps his eyes shut.

I watch from the corner of the room as the nurse stabs a needle into a vial of liquid and then sticks the needle into the IV. "This will help with the pain." She glances at me. "It will calm him down, help him sleep."

Already Ponyboy is drifting off. Soda makes sure he's asleep and then sinks into the chair. His elbow rests on the chair's arm as he covers his eyes with his hand and sighs.

The nurse asks me, "Now, the doctor told you about the drugs in his system?"

Crossing my arms, I nod mutely, my jaw tightening. Soda doesn't raise his head but from his tense shoulders, I know he's listening.

"It was only for a week but because he's young," the nurse begins, packing up her tools, "and because he had a lot in his system he'll experience withdrawal symptoms. Probably only for about a day or two. Anxiety, nausea…but he'll get through it."

She smiles at us, a tinge of sadness in it. "It's probably pointless to tell you visiting hours are over."

Soda looks up and laughs aloud. "Good luck lady."

I smile slightly at Soda's laugh, the sound so foreign, it's a relief to finally hear it again.

The nurse chuckles. "I'll just conveniently forget about you." She nods at the closet. "There's a cot in there."

"Thanks," I say, rubbing a hand through my hair.

"I'll check on you in the morning," the nurse says, opening the door. "If he needs anything, hit the call button."

Then, she sweeps out of the room, leaving the three of us alone together. The events of the past week hang over us, seeming surreal.

I slump against the wall, watching Ponyboy sleep. His face finally composed, peaceful.

But it won't last long. Because when he wakes, he'll remember.

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August 29, 1967

11:14 pm

"Goddamn it!" I exclaim, pounding the steering wheel in frustration.

I had been so sure we had caught him, that we could close the book on this investigation.

The drive from the station to my home is a long one, giving me a chance to be alone with my berating thoughts. I take the corner hard, my cruiser's wheels spinning their protest.

Instead, I still have to find the loose ends and tie them up in a neat ball. If not, this all falls on me.

I fervently hope that Ponyboy Curtis has the answers I need but the boy's understandably not coping yet.

_This will not end like the last time_ I think and instantly curse the reporter who had gotten the jump on me earlier tonight.

Benji and I had been leaving the hospital after questioning Ponyboy and had stumbled into the mass of reporter's flooding the scene. I had anticipated the ambush and had my token responses ready.

That is until Rudy Gershwin had asked the million dollar question. "Detective Jessup," he had shouted. "What precautions are you taking so that this case doesn't end up like the Bethlehem case?"

I ignored that question, giving Rudy a smug _Nice Try_ smile but I couldn't deny the fact that he had shaken me. This whole case had shaken me, but I took it, trying to make up for Chris Bethlehem.

However, one look at Ponyboy Curtis's face made me doubt it.

I could see the boy who _had_ been there. A quiet, shy kid who ran track, loved his brother's, cherished his friends, a bit reckless when it called for it, a bit goofy.

Only now, I couldn't see any of that left in Ponyboy. It was the same with Chris Bethlehem; he crawled within until he lost his way.

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Missing Boy Found by Rudy Gershwin

(Tulsa World)

August 30, 1967

Ponyboy Curtis, 15, has been found. Late last night, the Tulsa Police Department gathered for a press conference outside of St. Francis Hospital. Head Detective William Jessup would not comment on much except the fact that the culprit has yet to be found.

"Now that Ponyboy Curtis has been found," Jessup stated, "the investigation has shifted toward the suspect." There has been no mention on the motive for the kidnapping or any potential suspects.

Detective Jessup is best known for leading the Bethlehem case of last winter. 14 year old Chris Bethlehem had been abducted by Robert Lee Lewis. Bethlehem was recovered by the police after a three week captivity. When the case went to trial, evidence linking Lewis to the abduction was found to be circumstantial and the case dismissed. Lewis was released and two weeks later Chris Bethlehem took his own life.

The Tulsa Police stand by their decision to allow Jessup to lead this case. "Detective Jessup is one of the finest police officers I know," Chief Oliver Gavin commented. "As a department, as a community, we place our trust in him."

Throughout the case, Ponyboy's brothers have been unavailable for comment.

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Please review!


	2. Chapter 2

Thanks for the reviews for Chapter One. Please review. I hope I do this justice.

Thanks and have a great Thanksgiving!!

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Last night I dreamt I had forgotten my name  
'Cause I had sold my soul but awoke just the same  
I'm so lonely  
I wish I was the moon tonight

God blessed me, I'm a free man  
With no place free to go  
I'm paralyzed and collared-tight  
No pills for what I fear

This is crazy  
I wish I was the moon tonight…

--Neko Case

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August 30, 1967

6:29 am

"You're crazy to be up this early," Soda greets me in the empty cafeteria.

"Did you see the paper?" Before he can respond, I'm pushing it into his hands.

Soda gives me a wary look, sinking into the chair next to me. "What now?" he grumbles shaking the paper open.

I take a sip of coffee, waiting for him to finish reading. When he's done, his hands are curled tight around the newspaper.

"This is bullshit."

"I know."

Soda crumples the paper, sticking it underneath the table. "Goddamn. Goddamn it."

He fumbles with his pack of smokes, breaking a few matches in his process to light a cigarette.

I spread my hands flat on the table. "Ponyboy can't see this."

Fed up, Soda throws his pack of cigarettes and the matches across the table. They scatter like dominoes. "He's going to be fine."

"He will be," I reassure Soda. My stomach twists. The only thing is I don't know when. And that's what scares me the most.

XXXXX

August 30, 1967

7:13 am

"They went down for coffee," the nurse tells me, frowning even though I flash her my badge.

"I'm putting a guard out here," I tell her. "Just in case."

The frown disappears. "You think it's necessary?"

"I'd rather not take the chance."

She watches me a moment. "I'll let the doctor know."

When she's gone, I turn to the officer I've brought along. "Officer Teller, I'll be a moment," I say in a loud voice. Then a bit lower, "Stall if you have to. I need some time with him."

I know it's wrong, but I crack the door anyways and slide into Ponyboy Curtis's hospital room. If I'm going to get anything from the boy, it's best to do it when his brother's aren't around.

The room is filled with soft sunlight. A cot set up next to his bed, blankets strewn over the chair. Ponyboy's lying on his back, breathing evenly.

I step silently across the room, planning to wait until he wakes up, when he suddenly speaks, causing me to jump in surprise.

"I ain't sleeping if that's what you're thinking." His green eyes watch me as I recline against the window sill.

"Well, then. You want to answer some questions?"

His mouth turns down in displeasure. "Not really, but I will." He evaluates me again. "My brother's know you're here?"

He's sharp, I'll give him that. And so, I tell it to him straight. "No, they don't."

Ponyboy smiles crookedly, but then it quickly fades. "You're the one who found me?"

I nod.

"It's funny then…" he muses.

"What is?"

"You were all on the same side…trying to find me. But now…" Ponyboy trails off, wincing as his voice breaks.

But he doesn't need to say anymore, because I understand. From now on out, his brothers and I will probably butt heads more than we'll agree. We're both trying to help the kid, just in different ways.

Only, I'll be the bad guy because I'll push.

"Let me ask you a question Ponyboy," I begin. "Did these men – the men who took you – do or say anything that would give us a clue as to who they are?"

Ponyboy just looks at me, although I can tell he is thinking hard. Finally, he shakes his head slowly. "No…I don't think so."

"Think," I press. "Anything at all, no matter how small or insignificant it may seem."

"I'm sorry, I'm still kind of fuzzy," he whispers.

"I know you are," I say, feeling like a shit. "I can wait."

We sit in silence for about ten minutes and then Ponyboy shifts in bed, the soft rustle of the sheets catching my attention.

He is hesitant. "Well…they acted like they knew me – I mean Stan. They wanted money from his parents."

"It seemed personal?" I ask.

Ponyboy nods. "Yeah."

"That helps. A lot," I tell him. "Get some rest. I'll come back later."

As I leave, he shuts his eyes again and rolls onto his side.

"Stay here," I say to Teller. "I'm going back to the station."

Something tells me in my gut that it probably wasn't a stranger that took Ponyboy. It was someone who knew Stan. And if they knew Stan, maybe Stan knew him too.

XXXXX

August 30, 1967

11:47 am

For a second – as the light hits my eyes – it's easy to believe that nothing has changed. And that I've never gone. But it's all a lie as the past rushes up to hit me in the face. I still doubt that I am here. That I am safe.

_But I don't feel safe_, the sudden thought pops into my mind.

_That detective was here_, I think. _When_? It seems so long ago, but as I glance at the clock I see that it is nearly noon. I must have fallen back asleep after he left.

My eyes sweep the room. I had expected my brothers this morning; Darry asleep in the chair next to my bed, Sodapop curled up next to me. Instead, the room is empty. I wonder if they went to work but know this is doubtful.

I hate the hospital, with its white walls, sterile smell and hushed whispers. I hate it. In fact, I_ detest _it_. _

For a second the sticky sensation nearly engulfs me, but I squeeze my eyes shut, burying my face in my hands. I shouldn't, but I feel ashamed. Ashamed of how I have acted, that I couldn't get away, keep it together.

I know they'll be here soon, wanting to talk, wanting to help. The thought of facing anyone drains me.

_I can't do this. It's utterly impossible that I do this. _I eye the window, briefly toying with the idea of making a break for it.

I don't remember much after being found and I wish this were the case for the past week.

However, brief snippets of yesterday do flash before my eyes: the ambulance ride, seeing Darry and Soda, the conversation with Jessup…

My thoughts break off as I watch my hands shake. They feel on fire, as if I'll crawl out of my skin any second. Then, the phantom pain hits. The pain of the needle between the crook of my elbow, down my arm…

That's when I see it. The IV in my hand. I try to think, but I can't remember how it got there. I fail at recalling the memory and my breath hitches.

Then, I can't help myself. I scream aloud, ignoring the shredding of my throat.

I rip the IV out, sending the cords to the floor. I ignore the blood that spurts from my hand, instead twisting around trying to free myself from the remaining cords. The rack that holds the IV container tumbles to the floor as I jerk it in anger. It clangs loudly, striking the tile.

The door whips open and the nurse flies in, closely followed by Sodapop and Darry.

My brothers blanch, Darry uttering a low curse. They cross the room in a second. Hands fly around me, trying to calm, console.

"Jesus, Ponyboy!" Darry exclaims. "Kiddo, why'd you—"

"Oh my goodness!" the nurse frets. "Lay still sweetie…" She grabs for the rack, setting it back into place.

She glances over her shoulder at me and then says to Darry, "He's going through withdrawal."

"No, I'm not," I protest. "I don't want that."

The nurse takes another needle, turning to me. "I know you don't like it but this will help you relax."

"No!" I cry, drawing away from her confused face. "I don't _want_ to relax."

Soda grabs me, his voice strange. "Ponyboy, please just let—"

"No, Soda. That's what they gave me…so I couldn't…"

My breath begins to come in short, heavy bursts. This all is happening too fast and I feel lightheaded.

Darry sees it coming and as I sway, touches my back, dipping my head forward. "Take a breath," he commands urgently. I quit struggling, drawing my knees up to my chest and breathing in deeply.

"Don't give him any," Darry says.

"Dar?" Soda questions.

"Are you sure, sir?" the nurse asks as well, needle poised in mid-air.

"Yeah, he'll be better off without it."

Leaning over, Darry takes my shoulders and settles me against the pillow. His blue eyes pierce my green. "No more needles Ponyboy. I promise you that."

XXXXX

August 30, 1967

1:01 pm

Ponyboy's strangely calm after his outburst earlier this afternoon. Darry has gone to make a few phone calls while I stay with him.

I sneak a glance at my brother. He's lying in bed wearing the same vacant expression he's had since Darry calmed him down. Every now and then he'll shut his eyes but his breathing's too light for sleeping.

"Pone," I venture. "How're you feeling?"

He moves slightly to look at me. "My throat hurts."

"Are you sure they can't give you anything? Maybe just-"

"No, Soda. That's what _he_ gave me." Pony spits the words, dripping with venom.

My hands ball into fists, my brain running down a dangerous track. What I would give to meet the bastard who had taken our brother from us. There's no doubt in my mind I'd kill him. And that's putting it generously.

I'm so caught up in my anger that I realize Ponyboy is talking.

"…go home, Soda."

"What?"

"You should go home, Soda. You and Darry both."

I shake my head.

"I'm not any fun," he continues. "Besides we probably need the money anyways. I know you missed a lot of work when I was…gone…"

"That's not important. The only thing that matters is that you're back."

_That you're _here_…_

"I don't feel back. I feel in…in limbo." He smiles eerily. "You know that place on the edge of hell."

"Stop it," I say, a bit harsher than I meant to. Pony stares at me curiously, my strict tone foreign to him. But after reading that article this morning, I won't let him talk like this.

I stand up and go to him. "You need to give yourself a break, kiddo. Darry and I understand. We're with you." I push his soft hair back. It's grown since I saw him last.

"Hey," I say, seeing his face cloud. "Don't worry about us. Don't worry about anything. Let us do that."

He's silent.

There's no rule book for how to do this. How to broach this kind of subject. Darry and I haven't talked it over but I can't avoid what has happened. It's dishonest, cheap to tiptoe around the situation, no matter how painful.

"Pone…" I touch his arm. "Do you want to talk about it?"

"No, I don't."

I recognize the sense of finality in his tone, what he carried with him after Johnny and Dally died.

My voice softens and I sit on the edge of his bed. "Honey, you can't hide from it forever."

His eyes are dark. "I know. But I can hide for a little bit, Sodapop."

XXXXX

August 30, 1967

3:15 pm

Blonde – better known as Roger – knows he shouldn't but he walks the quick block and a half to buy the _Tulsa World_. When he makes it back to his motel room, he slams the door, ripping open the paper, hungry to devour the latest press.

The boy's photo stares up at him from page A-3 and Blonde eyes it angrily.

After reading the article, he growls at the circus surrounding the missing kid. He hadn't expected him to live. When he left him choking, dying on that floor in the cabin, he had thought himself in the clear.

_But he's alive and _talking, Blonde thinks. _The whole thing should have been easy_. _If Sammy had only looked harder at the kid he would have known it wasn't Stan_. _I should have known,_ he admits to himself grudgingly.

But then the stupid kid with the horse's name had to fight them, and Sammy had to turn. He should have expected that, wasn't that always how it went? Your partners always flip. Everyone flips.

Roger crumbles the paper between his palms, tossing it into the trash. He finds his smokes, strikes a match and lights the end of his cigarette. Then he flips the still-lit match into the trashcan and watches Ponyboy Curtis's photo burn.

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Please review! Pardon any typos.


	3. Chapter 3

Sorry I forgot to mention this. Just in case anyone is confused, this story is a continuation to "Finding the Boy".

Please review!

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May your hands always be busy,  
May your feet always be swift,  
May you have a strong foundation  
When the winds of changes shift.  
May your heart always be joyful,  
May your song always be sung,  
May you stay forever young,  
Forever young, forever young,  
May you stay forever young.

--Bob Dylan

XXXXX

August 31, 1967

8:39 am

"Oh no," I murmur, staring at my hands, which rest in my lap. Fresh beads of sweat break out on my forehead. Just like they had shaken when I was held captive with Blonde, my hands are shaking now.

Again, the sticky sensation falls upon me. This time, I snap my eyes shut and go with it. I feel without something, something I need. My mouth waters. Then the nausea builds up until I scramble from the bed, disrupting sheets and pillows. Quickly, I find the nearest trash can and empty myself.

Finished, I slide to the floor, resting my palms on the cool tile. I take a breath, hoping the waves of nausea and headaches are over for the time being. Earlier this morning the nurse mentioned withdrawal again and I can only suppose that this is it.

Although it would have been nice of her to move the trash can closer to my bed.

"Pone," a low voice says.

I look up; ready to catch a scolding from Darry or Soda for being out of bed. Instead, it's Johnny.

"You made it out of there." He doesn't smile.

"Yeah. Barely."

"That's all that matters." Johnny leans forward. "They'll wanna know what happened. You'll have to tell them."

I sit up straighter. "I ain't gotta tell anyone anything. It's over." I throw my hands up, struggling to pull myself up. "You said it yourself. I made it out of there." I climb back into bed, tugging the sheets up.

Johnny's eyes are so dark he doesn't even look like himself. "Did you?"

I jab the heels of my palms into my eyes. I don't know who says it, but it doesn't matter because either way they're true. The words float around the room and hook their teeth into my soul. "He's gonna come back for you. You're the only one who knows what he looks like."

My hands shake again.

XXXXX

August 31, 1967

8:40 am

Soda's on the pay phone when I approach. I lean against the wall and wait for him to finish.

"I'm not sure," he says to the person on the other end. "I know but…" He breaks into a laugh and then sighs. "Ok. I'll check with Darry and call you back."

He hangs up. "The guys want to come down."

I smile slightly, knowing our friends have stayed away as long as they can. I have only spoken with Two-Bit once since they found Ponyboy, having called his house to tell him the news. I know Soda's been keeping them in the loop better than I have been.

Soda sees the indecision on my face. "It might be good for him. Something not so…serious."

"Ok," I agree, knowing he's right. "When you want distraction bring in Two-Bit."

Soda breaks into a wide grin. "Shoot, knowing Two-Bit he'll probably challenge Pone to a wheelchair race or something like that."

I laugh. "He does that, and we're really gonna have problems." The laugh dies away. "Tell them they can come down – but only for a while. I don't want Ponyboy to get worked up."

"Sure, Dar," Soda says, phone already in his hand.

Truth be told, I'm not sure if Pony wants to see anyone right now. But anything that will help, I'll do it.

XXXXX

August 31, 1967

8:49 am

A woman is arguing with the policeman stationed outside Pony's hospital room. My eyes narrow and I pick up the pace.

"I'm sorry miss," he instructs. "I can't give out any more information. You better than anyone should know—"

"Can I help you?" I ask, startling her. The policeman – David Teller – shoots me an apologetic glance.

She spins around to see who has interrupted her. Annoyance flickers across her face but quickly dissipates as she sees me. "You're the brother," she announces happily. "I can tell."

This catches me off guard as usually Soda is the one to be compared to Ponyboy looks-wise, but I shake this off. "One of them. Can I help you?" I snap, not in the mood for reporters right now.

"I'm Lisa Paillard – the EMT who took Ponyboy to the hospital." Surprise must show on my face because she rushes on. "I just wanted to come by and see how he was doing."

"I'm sorry," she says sheepishly, moving away from Teller. "I'm pushy."

I follow her to the corner of the hallway. "No problem. I thought you were a reporter." I hold out my hand. "Darrel Curtis."

She takes my hand, holding it a brief minute before releasing. "Is he doing ok?"

I'm about to lie, but something about Lisa brings the honesty out of me. Maybe it's the eyes – they're green, like Pony's.

"Not really. He's not talking."

Lisa purses her lips. "And the withdrawal? How's that going?"

I raise an eyebrow and utter a soft snort. "Are you sure you're not a reporter?"

"I'm sorry. I'm nosy too." She bites her lip, brushing long strands of caramel-gold hair away from her face. _Butterscotch_, I think and then blink at the random thought.

Lisa unfurls her hands, gesturing at the air. "Your brother was so scared when I helped him…I just couldn't get him out of my head. I wanted to come by and see him."

I see an opportunity for news, any insight that Ponyboy won't give. "Did he…did he say anything when you picked him up?"

She looks at me strangely and fiddles with the gold necklace she's wearing. But she doesn't mince words. "He was afraid to see you."

Feeling like I've been punched in the gut, I exhale sharply.

Lisa reaches out to squeeze my arm. "Don't worry. It's that way for everyone. You'll be amazed at what time can do." But as she says this, the corners of her mouth turn down.

"Thanks," I reply gruffly. "I think he's sleeping but I'll let him know you stopped by."

Waving her hand in dismissal, she says with a smile, "It's not a big deal. I do work here after all." She begins to walk away from me, but then pauses and turns back. "Who posted the guard?"

My brow furrows. "Detective Jessup."

Her pretty face clouds up. She doesn't say anything more as she takes off down the hall.

XXXXX

August 31, 1967

8:58 am

I walk into Ponyboy's room just in time to hear him say, "Leave me alone, Johnny."

"Pony?" I ask cautiously, ignoring the sick feeling brewing in my stomach.

He's sitting in the dark, palms pressed into his eyes. Dropping his hands, he manages, "Hey Darry."

I flip a light on and glance around the room. "Who were you talking to?"

"No one."

I decide to drop it, even though I'm pretty sure I heard him talking to Johnny. "That EMT stopped by. The one who took you to the hospital. Lisa."

"Why'd she do that?"

"Because she cares, Ponyboy. You know that."

Abashed, Pony drops his head.

My eyes narrow, noticing the disarray of his bed, the blanket and pillow that have slid to the floor. "Did you get out of bed?"

"I puked," he tells me before launching into his plea. "Darry, when can I go home? I can't stand it here. I hate it."

I smile slightly at his fierce hatred of hospitals. Lord knows, he's earned it. "Believe me Ponyboy, Soda and I are about sick of hospital food ourselves." Not that he's been eating anyways. Pony'susing the same defense he used after Johnny and Dally died. _Not bologna_.

He doesn't say a word, instead waiting on a real answer from me. I perch on the edge of his bed. "Just a one more day, kiddo," I reassure, touching his shoulder beneath the thin hospital gown. "Then home."

In fact, there's nothing more I'd like to do then take him home, get him away from the cops, the press and the hospital. Someplace safe.

He nods mutely, stiffening at my answer.

"You feel up for some company? Two-Bit and Steve?"

A little bit of life flickers into his eyes. "Ok," he says, trying to smile. "Ok."

XXXXX

August 31, 1967

10:59 am

"It's such a relief, knowing that he's been found," Hannah Ezra sighs, her fingers entwined around a cup of tea. "I'm sure his family is overjoyed."

Beside her, Stan nods. "We'll have to go see him."

"Of course, honey. As soon as he gets out of the hospital." Hannah smoothes her son's hair back. "Refill, detective?" She nods at the teapot sitting in the middle of the table.

"No, thanks." My current cup of tea is untouched; I'm more of a coffee guy. "I have some questions for you and Stan." I keep my eyes trained evenly on her face.

"Of course," she says again.

"Anything," Stan agrees eagerly. I smile at the kid, so anxious to help in this case.

"Ponyboy confirms what we thought. The two men who took him believed he was Stanley."

Hannah pales. "Excuse me?" She sets her teacup back on its saucer.

"Apparently, they mistook him for Stanley and once they realized the error tried to get rid of Ponyboy. No kid, no evidence."

Stan grimaces and shakes his head. "Oh man."

I slide the two sketches we've compiled from Ponyboy Curtis and the two young boys who saw his abduction across the table. "One got shot. This one," I tap the sketch, "got away."

The sketches are a bunch of bullshit. From the two different sources – Ponyboy and Ricky Riverside – there are varying differences in profiles. But I'm hoping there are enough similarities between the two sketches that when we see the bastard we'll know him.

Her hands shake as she touches the sketch. "Who on earth…?"

"Do you know him?"

Indignant, she draws back. "Of course not. You think I know this person?"

I ignore her protests and turn to Stan. "Do you?"

Genuinely puzzled, he stares hard at the drawings. "No. Should I?" He looks at Hannah.

She stands up and grabs the teapot. Hannah slams it down, wincing as it hits the marble countertop. "This is ridiculous. I don't know why you'd think—"

"I ask because Ponyboy Curtis said the kidnappers spoke about him – Stan – as if they knew him. As if they knew his family."

"Well, we don't," Hannah snaps, twisting the wedding ring on her finger. "And if they know us, I have no idea how."

"Ok," I say, gathering up the sketches and standing up. "I appreciate your help. If you think of anything…" I pull out a card and hand it to Stanley. "Be sure to give me a call."

He takes it, his face twisting into a pained grimace. Stan and I know the same thing: his mother is lying.

XXXXX

August 31, 1967

1:07 pm

"You're a son-of-a-bitch, calling here."

"Would you rather we meet?"

She's silent, and then says. "What do you want?"

Roger presses the phone to his ear, taking in her words. "Have the cops visited yet?" Through the glass doors of the phone booth, he watches the people cross the intersection, cars zipping through lights. But he ducks his head quickly, remembering he's a wanted man.

The voice in his ear hisses, "This morning. That detective knows I know you." She begins to cry. "Why would you do this? I never meant for it to turn out like it did…I never—"

"Shut up," Roger growls, slamming his hand against the glass. People turn to stare and he shields his face again.

"You still did it, you turned. I never forgot." He ponders something. "It was supposed to be revenge."

"I forget. No one does revenge quite like you."

Roger freezes, the familiar bitter tone, the familiar words causing fury inside of him. "You never did learn when to shut your mouth." He smiles. "That's what won you that husband of yours. That pretty life of yours."

There is a long pause and for a second Roger thinks she has hung up on him. But when she speaks next, her voice is small. "You're not going to come after Stan, are you?"

He wants to toy with her, make her worry, but the ordeal with the other boy has tired him. "No," Roger says. "But I ain't done. Keep your trap shut and the shit won't land on you."

"You're going after him," she states, matter-of-fact.

"Of course. The two of you are the only ones who know who I am." Roger twists the phone cord. "And after the last time, I know you've learned your lesson. You won't talk."

"You're right, Roger," she murmurs. "I won't."

XXXXX

More to come. Please review – they are all devoured lovingly. Thanks!

Pardon any typos.


	4. Chapter 4

XXXXX

All of these lines across my face  
Tell you the story of who I am  
So many stories of where I've been  
And how I got to where I am  
But these stories don't mean anything  
When you've got no one to tell them to  
It's true...I was made for you

--Brandi Carlile

XXXXX

3:33 pm

August 31, 1967

I stare blankly at the book Sodapop has brought me from the gift shop. _The Sound and the Fury_. "I can't read this," I announce tossing it to the ground.

Quietly, Soda picks the book up, setting it on my nightstand. His long fingers curl around the spine of the book, his knuckles white. I wince at my callousness, trying to amend it by saying, "I just can't concentrate right now."

Soda smiles, all forgiven. "Shoot, I can relate kiddo." He picks up his jacket, draping it over the recliner. He moves on to the magazines and newspapers, piling them into stacks. Coffee cups go into the trash, used utensils follow suit.

I raise an eyebrow, watching him. "Are you actually _cleaning_, Sodapop?"

Embarrassed, Soda rubs the back of his head, his hair sticking up in greasy spikes. "Well, yeah. They don't have maid service around here."

Giving Soda a wry glance, I pick a glass of water up from my nightstand. "Yeah, where's Darry when we need him?"

Soda guffaws loudly and tosses three more Pepsi cans in the trash. They ricochet against the side, an annoying banging noise that causes me to grit my teeth. I take a sip of water; I'd kill for a Pepsi but I don't think I'm going to get one anytime soon. Apparently, according to Darry, caffeine dehydrates. I can't wait until he stops hanging around with doctors.

Muffled voices begin to sound from outside the door. Someone laughs and Darry tells them to "shut it". There's a thump and then a low voice cursing.

"You okay with this?" Soda asks, sneaking a glance at me, an empty Pepsi frozen in mid-air ready to be dunked.

I nod, anxious. _Get it over with_. "Sure, Soda." _Damn it. Damn it._ The calming repetition from my time with Blonde and Freckle rears its ugly head and I cower inside. Like an animal at the zoo, I'm about to be on display, only I can't bare my fangs and charge the glass. I don't have the energy to fight.

There's a tap on the door and then Darry enters, leading the pack. Two-Bit follows looking nervous which is a rare feat for him. Steve's face is a mask; he glances over at me, expressionless.

"Well, look what the cat dragged in," Soda drawls, slapping hands with Steve. Darry has his hands in his pockets, staring at the ground. He's still in the same pants he was wearing when they brought me in and I make a mental note to tell him to go home and change, not to mention shower.

I manage a weak wave and rasp out a hello. "Hey guys." The throbbing in my head begins.

They hang back for a second until Darry slams the door shut behind us. It's like a gunshot; we jump and then take off.

"Hey Pone!" Two-Bit exclaims, grinning from ear-to-ear. "Long time no see." He shoves past Darry, clapping his shoulder on the way. When he reaches me, Two-Bit's goofy grin falls away. He simultaneously hugs me and ruffles my hair at the same time. "God kid, I'm glad you're in one piece," he whispers in my ear.

His frankness startles me. "So am I." I whisper back as he pulls away.

Steve takes the calmer route, nodding at me from across the room. He shifts his weight, dropping his eyes and as my palms begin to sweat I know why he's nervous. We didn't exactly leave each other on the best of terms.

My head aches; I press a hand to my temple. _Damn it. Damn it. Damn it. Goddamnit._

Two-Bit rocks on his heels, trying to appear cool and unruffled. "You oughta see the press and fuzz outside, kid. It's like a circus."

"Swell," I say softly. I've had enough publicity to last me a lifetime.

"How you feelin' kid?" Steve finally speaks up. He's come straight from the DX, grease caking his hands, a scent of diesel and cigarettes. I smile wistfully.

"I've been better," I say. Out of the corner of my eye I feel Darry's gaze boring a hole into me. "And I'll be even better when I'm _out_ of here."

"Pony…" Darry warns.

Two-Bit lifts an eyebrow. "Aw, shoot Dar, go easy on the kid. I just know he's ready to have a wheelchair race."

Soda snaps his fingers, pointing at Darry, a triumphant gleam in his eyes. "I told you so!"

They begin to mock argue. Soda laughs again as Two-Bit enlightens Darry that a hospital is really like an amusement park; all scares but no real threat. Darry's not amused; I can see his eyes rolling and his brain thinking about all the times I've been in here and not liking the comparison.

I just watch, letting the familiarity soak in. My mouth twists up into a half-smile. It suddenly fades as I give a jerk. "Oh!" I utter. Confused, I rub my temple again. The unwelcome headache has come on fast and painful. I shoot a glance at my oldest brother. "Darry…"

Darry knows.

He always knows, no matter how many times I've doubted him before. "I'll get you some aspirin." He leaves the room before I can thank him, the door shutting quietly.

Soda has gone chalk white. He leans into Steve. "Darry said this wasn't a good idea." They begin to talk in hushed tones.

"Soda," I say, sticking my arm out, trying to get his attention. "It's fine. Really."

Beside me, Two-Bit sinks down into the recliner. He toys with an invisible string on his jeans. "Pone, guess what?"

"What?" I ask distractedly, my eyes still on Soda.

"I got a job."

"Well, that's great that you – wait, what?"

Then to their surprise, I laugh aloud. It comes up from my stomach and escapes my lips like bubbles. It's freeing to laugh and I let loose, giggling like I would when Soda and Darry would launch their tickle war. "Liar," I tell him, still laughing, still holding my guts.

Two-Bit smiles, his grey eyes twinkling with relief. "Yeah, but it made you laugh right?"

XXXXX

4:09 pm

August 31, 1967

Darry and Soda have been called away by the doctor, leaving me with Two-Bit and Steve as babysitters. The poker hand I've been dealt is long forgotten. "I hope everything's ok." I eye the door with apprehension, anticipating the doctor tumbling in with a needle.

"It's fine. Paperwork bullshit." Two-Bit kicks back in the recliner, his shoes on the edge of my bed. "So, did we tell you how we got hauled in to the station when you were gone?"

"Really? You bring that up? Now?" Steve asks, his voice tinged with disgust. He slaps the cards Two-Bit has dealt him on the table. They slide off, plunging to the floor. Seeing that Steve had a full house, Steve and I wince.

Numb, I shake my head. "What happened?" It's no surprise I haven't heard about this.

With Darry it's like a stab in the back, finding out what he keeps from me; with Two-Bit a slap in the face with his frankness.

Two-Bit jerks a thumb toward Steve. "Well, you know big mouth over here—"

"Can it, Two-Bit," Steve snaps. His eyes move to mine. "Let's just say you…" he pauses and amends this. "…the argument _we_ had…it got me into some trouble with the fuzz."

I pale, Steve's words eerily reminiscent of my earlier hallucination.

_You got me into some trouble with the fuzz."_

_"Did I?" I fight a grin. "Maybe that'll teach you to flap that big mouth of yours."_

_Steve steps in a puddle of water as he circles the room; his foot comes away dry. "Keep talking kid, I'll leave you here."_

_Frowning, I stare at his dry shoe and then look up at him. "No - don't go. I don't want to be here alone."_

_Steve suddenly has a smoke in his hand. "Nobody wants that Ponyboy…"_

Steve sees my reaction and backtracks; his hand paused above another deck of cards. "Christ, Ponyboy. I was only kidding."

"But I did right?" I protest. "They thought you did…something…"

Steve shoots Two-Bit an angry glare. "Yeah, they did." His voice softens. "But it's not your fault, kid." He flips a card between his fingers and then palms it inconspicuously. I can tell Soda's been teaching him how to cheat. Except Soda does it better; Steve's too obvious, flaunting his skill. With Soda he keeps it on lockdown.

"So what else happened when I was gone?" I ask.

"Pony," Two-Bit says, reaching up to grip by forearm. His grey eyes are earnest. "You ain't missed nothing."

I sigh and swing my legs over the edge of the bed. My feet touch the cool tile and I balance myself as I stand up. The throbbing in my head has stopped courtesy of the aspirin. "Can I have a smoke?"

Again, Two-Bit and Steve lock eyes, only this time it's not angry. "Oh, I don't know…" Two-Bit begins, his eyes ticking like a metronome as he watches my every move. "I'm not even sure you're supposed to be out of bed."

"Just give me one," I order. "Please. I'll even crack a window."

We're on the sixth floor of Saint Fran's, my window overlooking the downtown street of Sand Springs. I haven't even been back to Tulsa yet. Leaning forward, I try to throw the window open. But it catches, sticky because of the humidity. Irate, I struggle for a moment. It still won't give and then abruptly I slam my hands against the glass. It shakes against the pressure.

"Pone…" Two-Bit half-rises to help me out, his faced scrunched up.

"I got it." Managing all my strength, I shove my weight into it. The window relinquishes its fight, jolting upward. Fresh air drifts inside the room, the sounds and sirens from the street adding to the chaos.

Turning back to them, I stick my arm out. Then, I see Steve staring at my arms and hastily fold them across my chest. "C'mon," I croak. "Don't be a jerk your whole life."

Steve groans loudly; something between annoyance and indulgence. "Fine. You choke your ass off, see if I help you." Steve slaps his pockets for his smokes. Finding them, he takes a single stick out, holding it up in front of me. "One. That's all. No whining."

He lights it for me. I watch the end glow a brilliant red and then I take a drag. It hurts my throat but I greedily drink it in. The smoke warms me inside, as I focus on the pain, goading it on, telling it I can resist.

"Man, we're gonna catch hell," Two-Bit moans.

XXXXX

7:49 pm

August 31, 1967

She's drinking coffee from a tin thermos, a cigarette dangling from her right hand. "Do you know Jessup?" I ask, coming up from behind her. The hospital lounge is deserted, the perfect place for a conversation.

"Jesus Christ!" she hisses, jerking, the thermos tilts dangerously in her hand. Lisa Paillard eyes me. "Hello to you too."

Something about our last conversation has been bothering me. Pony's intense questioning about why she cares has got to me more than I care to admit. Lisa had winced when I mentioned Jessup's name; like Soda does now. The Bethlehem Case shouldn't bother me, but the similarities are too striking to not cast doubt.

Plus, Two-Bit and Steve's visit has left me feeling helpless, unknowing as to how to help my youngest brother. Clearly uncomfortable with the visit, Pony had smiled and chatted but there was something swimming underneath him. A dark and tired something; a storm cloud at the end of a day that no one can run from, because no matter what it's going to release.

Soda had met me an hour ago, hands out, a panicked expression ripping across his face. "Ponyboy was smoking," he blurted. Soda proceeded to take all the blame; it was too soon, the guys shouldn't have come, Pony was out of it. I managed a lame admonishment and ducked out.

Now, I figure grilling Lisa will help get me back in control, but one look at her face fells me.

Lisa tosses her cigarette butt into her thermos, a sizzle echoing up from it as the ember is distinguished. "Sure, I know him." Her voice is husky, personal. _Shit_, I think, my stomach sinking. _She's his wife, or girlfriend or-_

"I'm his sister-in-law," she replies. "Why? You worried he's going to mess this case up too?"

It's the 'too' that gets me. I take a step towards her. "Are you?"

Surprise flits across her face and then she closes down. "What do you want?" Capping the thermos, she stuffs it back into the green bag slung around her shoulder.

I chuckle, but it's not friendly. "Just tell me if I should be worried."

"You trusted W– Jessup before this right?" she asks. "So, why should it matter?" Lisa leans against the counter, sighing. "You made me waste my last smoke."

I blink and then unwillingly chuckle. "He's handling my brother's case. I think that's a perfectly good reason why it matters." Jessup couldn't screw with this, with Pony.

Frustrated, Lisa begins to chew on a nail. I want to pull it away, like I do with Ponyboy, but I don't. Somehow I don't think she'd like it. "Look…William - goddamn it, _I mean_ _Jessup_, just gets too close sometimes. All he sees is the kid but not the case."

She brushes her messy hair from her face, it looks like whipped straw after being baled. "He was careless on the Bethlehem case. I hated him for it. I knew that kid, I _helped_ him when we found him."

"What happened?"

"Jessup found Robert Lewis in the alley with Chris Bethlehem. Lewis had a gun in his hand, but as soon as the cops came he dropped it and claimed he had found Chris. That he was trying to _help_ him. Bastard," Lisa mutters bitterly. "Goddamn bastard."

"Jessup blew it," she continues, when I say nothing. "It was all he had as evidence and he still put Lewis on the stand."

"But Chris – didn't he tell them what happened?" My fists have been balled up this entire time, but listening to this story sickens me. They release weakly. Instead of being angry, I'm at a loss.

Her hands fly up. "Sure he did. But Chris was scared; he got his story muddled up. Hell, his _head_ was muddled up. So, after a lengthy deliberation the judge threw it out. Claims the charges were based too much on circumstantial evidence."

Lisa shrugs, gesturing helplessly. "Jessup just wanted to get the trial over with for Chris, get him better. He was just stupid, God bless him - he meant well, but he was _foolish_."

Not knowing if I'm more or less relieved after hearing this story, I place my hand on the wall for support. "Jesus. That's a lot to take in."

Lisa remains rigid, her eyes grim. "But that's not what you wanted to know about is it?"

"Lisa—" I try to tell her to stop, to not say anything more about what has happened, because I already know. A few hours after the article on Chris Bethlehem had come out I had dug up the newspaper archives. I told Soda I was going to get a change of clothes at the house, but had instead gone down to the Public Library.

There, in the musty Records Room I had read on tattered microfilm about how Chris Bethlehem had stolen his daddy's shotgun, locked himself in the bathroom and canceled his birth certificate.

Amazingly, she doesn't. She just cocks her head and smiles sadly. "Jesus Christ, if Connie heard this, my sister would kill me. She'd just kill me." I manage a gruff chuckle, but it's forced.

"I don't know what to do," I say, desperation entering my voice, my head screaming out to stand tall, shut up. "I don't know what he's thinking."

Then, very softly, stealthily, Lisa tiptoes closer to me and brushes my arm. I let it fall from its bracing position against the fall. She grips my bicep, her eyes fierce. "He is not just scared. He is so much more."

XXXXX

Please leave reviews. I greatly appreciate them and hope I'm doing the characters justice. Thanks and pardon any typos.


	5. Chapter 5

I felt my life with both my hands  
To see if it was there  
I held my spirit to the glass,  
To prove it possible

I turned my Being round and round  
And paused at every pound  
To ask the Owner's name  
For doubt, that I should know the Sound  
To ask the Owner's name  
For doubt, that I should know the Sound

--Carla Bruni

XXXX

Sorry for the wait. Please review.

XXXX

3:41 pm

September 1, 1967

The morning passed by in a blur. I sat in my hospital room, waiting on Darry and Soda to finish checkout. They seemed unwilling to leave me but I shooed them out, packing up my bag. Despite the heat, I dressed in a long sleeved tee and jeans.

Then shortly before noon, they all flew in, the doctor included, issuing Darry and Soda strict orders to watch my throat, keep me hydrated and monitor any withdrawal symptoms. Darry took all this in with a blank face, but I could already see him making mental checklists of his daily tasks. I cringed, huddling near Soda for support.

It should have been easy, getting ready to go, but I detached myself. The morning swirled around me, colors blurring into black and white.

"Do you feel alright?" Darry asked.

_No, not slightly_. Instead, I say: "I'm fine."

Darry just looked at me. Then, with a strong hand on my shoulder, he guided me out of the hospital. The nurses rallied around me as I left, patting my shoulder, telling Soda that he was a doll, Darry that they knew he'd do a great – _a swell_ – job with me.

When we entered the parking lot all hell broke loose.

It was partially my fault, but when I saw the reporters, I didn't know what to do. They had been camped out there since I had been brought in and finally seeing me they jumped at their chance, shouting questions.

Wincing, I took a step backwards, but was blocked by my brothers. My only thought had been: _They want answers. Answers. Answers. Answers. _Thankfully, the police held them off, barricading them from us and our truck. However, I suspected that if anyone had the gall to utter a word to me, Darry would have decked them.

"You're driving, Soda," Darry growled, keeping a steady grip on my neck, pushing me along.

"Five points for everyone I hit?" Soda quipped, climbing into the driver's seat. He revved the engine and peeled out of the parking lot.

"Make it ten," Darry retorted. It was a long drive back to Tulsa and I closed my eyes as we rumbled off down the interstate.

Now Darry's shaking me very gently, telling me we're 'here' and I'm opening my eyes to see our front yard, our house. My surroundings shift, my world going ass over tea kettle and I realize Darry's carrying me. He grunts, but Darry doesn't have to say a thing about my weight because I already know. This morning, I had to carve two extra holes in my belt loop with Soda's pocket knife.

Beside me, I see Soda scoop up the five or ten papers that rest on our porch. The key clicks in the lock and we're in the house. It's dark, shades drawn, and as Darry settles me on my feet my eyes adjust.

"…walk?" Darry's talking to me.

"Huh? What?"

"Can you walk?" he asks again. Soda grips my elbow.

I must have been standing in the doorway for a while. "Sure, yeah. I got it." Taking a tentative step forward, I suddenly falter. Despite everything feeling out of place, it's exactly as I remember. The couch, Darry's recliner, our fireplace with mom and dad's photos on the mantle. Soda plunks the papers down on the couch, a dull thump in my ears.

Soda's rubbing my back. "Do you want to take a nap? Food?"

It all reminds me too much of my parents' funeral; people hovering, consoling. The quiet worry, the sheer nothingness of everything that should matter.

"No." I back away from them. "I - I'm going to take a shower." I keep a calm stride until I round the corner to the hallway. Suddenly, I rush towards the bathroom, unable to hold it in any longer. Slamming the bathroom door shut, I lock it behind me and clumsily twist on the shower.

The water comes down fast and fierce and I climb in clothes and all. I begin to bawl, my hands coming up to cover my face, before it can fully take over.

XXXXX

4:15 pm

September 1, 1967

The shower's still running. "You think we should go in there?" I ask Darry. Stiff from sitting on the floor for nearly 30 minutes, I shift, leaning my head back to let it rest against the couch's cushions. My eyes roll upwards to watch Darry, who sits above me on the couch.

Darry glances at the closed bathroom door. "No. Let's give him some time." He pushes himself up with a sigh, using my head as a brace. He rubs my hair gently. Gathering up Ponyboy's bags, Darry exits the living room; I hear our bedroom door open. He returns empty-handed and looks at me. "I reckon we should start dinner."

"Why?" I ask. "Who's gonna eat?" Just looking at Darry tells me he'd rather be sleeping right now. His face is drawn and haggard. He needs a shave, although I suppose I don't look too hot myself. My hands brush across the stubble on my jaw.

"We all are," Darry snaps. "Especially him." His jaw tight, Darry stalks into the kitchen.

I wipe my hands down my face, taking a deep breath. "Dar…"

"What Soda?"

"We gotta talk to him."

Another sigh. "There're a lot of things we gotta do, Sodapop."

XXXXX

4:22 pm

September 1, 1967

_Drip. Drip. Drip._

_Damn it. Damn it. Damn it._

The edge of the tub is uncomfortable, but I continue to sit there, staring at the bathroom rug, allowing myself to air dry. I watch the tendrils of water curl down my clothes, down my arms and splat against the floor.

A calm unease has fallen over me. Like I told Soda before, I'm in limbo. I can't go forward and going backwards isn't an option. Right now, both my options—salvation and damnation—don't particularly strike the right chord. What I really need is a resurrection. _This is going to be hard_, I think to myself. _So hard_.

I sit there another five minutes contemplating this fact and then decide to get up. Besides, I'm bound to get called out of here by Darry or Soda if I stay any longer. Already, I hear them both rustling around in the kitchen, hovering by the bathroom door.

Before I can help myself, my eyes waver and I judge my reflection in the mirror. I suck in a breath, caught off guard by what I see.

The face staring back at me is Darry's.

And not just in looks, which is strange in its own way since I never thought I remotely resembled either of my brothers. I recognize Darry's tired, bruised eyes and fatigued face and wonder how on earth he does it. How he manages to stay sane. How he managed not to dump me and Soda in a boy's home and run home free down that football field.

But that's not Darry.

I, on the other hand, I'm a walking wraith: pale, thin, haunted and ready to scream out a warning to anyone who will listen.

The trouble is I don't think I'll even hear it.

XXXXX

4:45 pm

September 1, 1967

"You hungry?" Darry shoots me a loaded look when I slink into the kitchen. From his place at the table, Soda smiles encouragingly.

I shrug my shoulders, saying what the safest thing is probably: "I guess." Darry watches me carefully; my eyes are red but he says nothing.

I wince at the brightness of the room, at the return to normality. Darry reaches out, tugging on the long sleeved t-shirt. "Go sit down, Pony." Abruptly, he pauses, his brow creasing in consternation as he fingers my damp clothes.

"Pone. Did you…?" Darry draws back, understanding dawning. At first it's a flash of annoyance and then concern. "Just…go sit. We're gonna eat." He disappears and then reappears with a towel, tossing it to me.

I take it and follow his instructions, sitting down. "When are you two going back to work?" My fingers fan out on the hard table, feeling the slickness of the wood beneath my fingertips.

Soda looks up guiltily, unable to conceal the bills he has been paying. "Pone…"

"Tomorrow," Darry replies. "I'm sorry, kiddo. We just took so much time off…"

_No, _I'm_ sorry_, I want to say. Instead, I shake my head. "It's ok. I know you have to go back. I'll be fine here."

"You're not gonna be here alone," Darry says.

I raise an eyebrow. "I don't need a babysitter, Dar."

"We'll figure something out," is all he says as he pops the fridge open.

Suspiciously, my eyes narrow. Somehow, I just know this involves Two-Bit. Then my eyes widen as I see the incredulity of our fridge. It's packed with rows and rows of stacked casseroles, all wrapped in tin foil.

Soda chuckles. "I don't know what you're debating about, Dar. They're all the same. Tuna noodle." He nods at me and then at the fridge. "Courtesy of Two-Bit's mom."

Understanding dawns on me. At least Barbara Mathews fed them when I was gone. I do a double take at the fridge again. "Darry, there must be nearly ten casseroles in there. Ain't you sick of eating those?"

"We didn't eat much," Soda says in a low voice as Darry grabs a casserole dish. He shuts the fridge door quickly, as if to block the reminder of the last week. Robotically, Darry goes through the motions: turning the oven on, removing the tin foil, shoving the casserole in the oven, getting out a spatula.

I'm not hungry and the thought of food, the thought of _returning_ scares me, because I don't know how to act. It's a normal act, which feels insanely abnormal. My chest constricts and I shut my eyes, slipping into blackness. _Damn it, Damn it, Damn it. _

Willing myself, I think of Johnny, of mom and dad, of Dal–

"Pony…?" Soda gives my arm a quick shake. "You okay?"

When my eyes reopen, the light isn't so bright, the surroundings not so alien. Soda's staring at me. Darry sets a plate down.

It's unexpected, but I say what I think. "Soda, I missed your cooking."

Startled, Soda manages a thankful smile. "Glad to know someone likes it," he retorts, looking pointedly at Darry. It's a feat he doesn't stick his tongue out.

Darry raises an eyebrow, a smile tugging at his lips. "Don't get too excited, little buddy. He said he 'missed it' not that he 'liked it'."

XXXXX

9:01 pm

September 1, 1967

"Ok, but it will have to be tomorrow night – when one of us is off work," Darry says.

I watch my oldest brother on the phone, negotiating with Detective Jessup and instantly feel guilty that I'm relieved he has to handle this. Because if this was on me, I'm not sure I'd hold it together like Darry.

Darry does it all. And he's a better man than I am.

Darry continues. "No. We're gonna get a friend to stay with him." He listens for a moment and then frowns. "I didn't – no, I didn't think about that. But you're right." Darry glances at our closed bedroom door. "He's not going to like me too much." Then, a curt nod. "Tomorrow then." He hangs up.

I fill the sink to the top with hot water, adding a drop of dish soap. The bubbles blow up and I'm thankful for the monotony of the dishes. We're not in the hospital and Ponyboy's home. That counts for everything.

"Jessup's coming over to talk tomorrow." Darry yawns, scratching the back of his head. He eyes his recliner with welcome and sinks into the chair with a groan. His eyes are shut before I can ask any more about Jessup.

I let him sleep and quietly finish the dishes.

XXXXX

9:12 pm

September 1, 1967

Pony's asleep. Curled up into himself, underneath the heavy quilt mom had sewn four years ago.

Accustomed to our room, I cross it in the dim darkness, stepping over books and trash as I strip my t-shirt off and climb into bed next to my brother. Pony doesn't make a move, sleeping heavily. I roll on my side and pull him close, hugging him to me.

He's burning up but it's not because of fever. The clothes he's wearing are meant for winter, not a humid Tulsa night. Still, I let him stay curled up and I keep near him despite the heat flowing off of him like a furnace.

"Oh kid." I brush his hair back, away from his placid face. It had been too close. _So close_.

It's a long time coming…but it finally happens: the hole in my chest explodes. My brain goes back to last week when he was missing and I know I'm lucky he's here. Darry and I, we're both lucky it turned out this good.

It all could have gone the other way…a colder way. Then, Chris Bethlehem pops into my head, reminding me that we're still not in the clear. The hole tightens but I choke it back, sighing into Pony's shoulder. I've never been any good at thinking and having this time to myself doesn't help any. _This_ is why I don't sit still – why I have to _move – _because when I'm left alone, I'm helpless. I can't put my thoughts or my fears into words the way Ponyboy can or think them through like Darry.

I'm also a coward, feeling relief when I saw Ponyboy was asleep. I didn't want to face him alone, try and talk to him about what had happened. I had tried in the hospital and it was evident he wanted to drop it. I needed Darry for this. He'd know what to say, when to push, when to back off. Me – I'd shut up the minute Pony balked.

I see it in his face. It's eating at him; he wants to talk, but he's scared. I don't know if Pony thinks he has to stay strong for us – but that's the worst thing he can do. Because seeing the pain in his face and _not knowing_ is worse than anything he could ever tell me or Darry.

"C'mon Pone…" I murmur aloud, willing him to hear me. He needs to talk before he's crushed by his own weight.

XXXX

12:46 am

September 2, 1967

Disentangling myself from Sodapop, I stumble out of bed, blindly feeling my way around the room until I'm in the hallway. Clutching the wall for support, I exhale, running a hand through my hair.

In the hospital, I had been strung out and stoned. No time for dreaming. Now my recent nightmare lingers. I want to wave it away like wispy smoke from a cigarette but it remains long after it has gone.

_Freckle's lifeless body falling towards me…his mouth a shocked 'O'…rolling out of the way…Blonde approaching, wearing his menacing smile…hands wrapped around my neck…_

_Damn it. Damn it. Damn it._

I release my hold on the wall. Soft moonlight streams through the blinds, my body creating flickering shadows on the wall as I pass through the light. In the kitchen, I grab a cup, turn the faucet on and take a long swallow. I leave the glass in the sink.

Instead of going back to bed, I reach the front door. I feel the concave metal of the doorknob in my palm, twisting it once to open it. Crossing the threshold between the porch and the living room I stare out into the clear, dark night. The air is still warm, still humid. Muggy even; but I'm not hot.

It's odd, feeling so out of place, I shouldn't be disheartened by this but I am. I want to jump right back into my life, instead of watching myself from the outside. Every time I try to open my mouth to talk – to tell someone - I lose my voice. I don't know what's going to come pouring out. Because deep down, I can't really decide if I kept strong all along, gave up at the beginning or believed too little in the end.

It's dark outside; almost overpowering. Quickly, I slam the door shut, wincing at the noise. I wait a few moments, expecting Darry to come in but he doesn't. Then, in my haste to get back to bed, I turn too quick and end up slamming my knee into the wall, toppling over the newspapers Sodapop had dropped next to the door.

"Shoot." Crouching down, I begin stacking the papers into a neat pile. My hands fly, eager to be done with the task. Suddenly, I stop. Familiar words on the front page of the newspaper catch my attention as my eyes scan over the stories.

"_Local Boy Missing…August 26…"_

"_Mistaken Identity in Case of Missing Boy…"_

"_Missing Boy Found…Chris Bethlehem had been abducted…took his own life…"_

Bewildered, I sink down to the carpet. The newspaper rustles as I shake open its thin pages. There, in the pale moonlight, I begin to read the articles that Chris Bethlehem and I have inspired.

XXXXX

Pardon typos. Please review. Much appreciated.


	6. Chapter 6

Sorry for the long delay. Had a nice Christmas break for 10 days…now back at it. Please read and review. Happy New Year!

Special thanks to Calla Lilly Rose for the input.

XXXXX

Aw knock it off Johnny

Man you're livin' in your head

You ain't even got a car

And those don't chicks don't believe a word you said

But you're doing the talking

So I'll just keep quiet

This'll probably go nowhere

But I can't blame you for trying

Just us kids in the park at night

Hangin' around 'neath the vapor light

Got no drugs and we got no guns

Not even bothering anyone

--James McMurtry

XXXXX

8:49 a.m.

September 2, 1967

I pause, toothbrush lodged in my mouth as Sodapop yells his goodbye. Steve honks once more and then the door slams. I hear the truck peel out of the driveway and I check my watch. _Soda's gonna be late_.

Pony suddenly appears in the doorway of the bathroom wearing sweatpants and a long sleeved black t-shirt. He slouches against the wall, arms crossed, watching me strangely. Dark circles frame his eyes, his face white. "Pony, did you sleep at all last night?" I run my toothbrush under the faucet and then stick it back in the cup holder.

He shrugs. "Off and on." At my look, he breaks off and admits, "Mostly off. How about you?"

"Fine," I grumble, wiping my hands on my jeans. In fact, more than fine. I had passed out in my chair, waking up about ten to drag myself off to bed. Soda had finished the dishes, leaving me to sleep.

"Look," I instruct, "you take it easy today. Just relax." I pat his shoulder. "Jessup's coming by tonight. He wants to talk to you."

"About what?"

"Hell if I know." I work hard to keep the disdain from my voice but Pony catches it. Again, he eyes me curiously, almost as if he wants to say something but is mulling his words over.

Ponyboy sighs and follows me into the kitchen. "What time are you going into work?"

I pour myself a cup of coffee. "I have to go in around 11. Soda will be home at four so until then…" Taking a slug of the hot liquid, I pull out a frying pan. "Breakfast?"

"Darry, I can stay home alone. I'll lock the doors and everything. Scout's honor." Pony makes a face. "I can make my own breakfast too."

I set the pan on the stovetop with a loud clang. "Will you?"

He grimaces, eyes downcast. "It's not my fault everything tastes like baloney, Darry."

I wince inwardly at his words; he says my name like I've just taken a bat to his face. Frustrated, I run a hand through my hair. "Ponyboy, that's not what I meant…I just think you should eat—"

"Never mind," he snaps. "I'll make something." With exaggerated movements, he whips the fridge open, gathering up a few eggs in his hands. He slams it shut and I duck out of his way as he crosses the kitchen purposefully.

I watch him cautiously, wondering what will crack first, Pony or the eggs.

Then with deftness so quick, Ponyboy hits each egg hard against the side of the pan, breaking the shell and letting the whites and yolk drip into pan. He flicks the burner on. "You want one?"

"No. No, I don't." Exasperated, I cough into my fist. "Listen, I want to talk to you. Kiddo, until this mess gets sorted out, I don't want you going out alone." Last night, I hadn't missed the fact that Jessup believed that guy may still be lurking around.

"Darrel," Jessup had said in his gravelly voice. "I don't want to worry your family, but it's pretty safe to assume the guy is still out there. Ponyboy's kidnapping wasn't a random occurrence; unfortunately, I have a feeling this guy isn't going to drop this. Keep him close."

Even though Jessup is right, now I have a whole other set of worries. All of them are wrapped up within my youngest brother. Not only do I have to protect Pony from himself, but now whoever took him is out there as well. I look at Ponyboy's tense shoulders and my jaw tightens.

His fingers are clenched around the spoon he's stirring the eggs with. "Does Jessup think he's going to come back?" he asks, not looking away from the eggs. "Do _you_ think that?" Pony's voice catches on his own resignation.

I freeze as I watch him. His hands are long – nearly longer than Soda's – and shaking intently around the spoon. They twitch with a fear only known to Ponyboy.

"They've considered that…" I begin slowly, remembering his breakdown in the hospital. I'm torn between not wanting to scare him but then again not wanting to lie to him. "Which is why," I continue, "you need to quit arguing with me. Until this is wrapped up—"

"I'm housebound," Ponyboy finishes. He scowls. "Swell. Two-Bit's just gonna love this."

I hide a grin, knowing Two-Bit's going to relish bossing Ponyboy around. "You're right. He probably will. But you should be used to it by now."

Rolling his eyes, Ponyboy shuts the burner off. Pony removes the frying pan from the burner, scraping the eggs onto a plate. I can see my brother's brain working around something and then he asks the question I hadn't wanted to answer. "Darry…do you think he's going to come back? Come here?"

Something dark unfurls inside of me. "Ponyboy," I reach out and grip his shoulders. "He does that, he's going to have a problem."

XXXXX

10:40 a.m.

September 2, 1967

"Curtises!" Two-Bit screams, clambering through the front door. Surprisingly, he's on time. I wince at his outfit. He's wearing a bright red shirt with a collar and plaid pants that look as if they're meant for a Soc. His white socks are stretched up over the pants. Under both arms he has a six-pack; one of beer, the other of Coca-Cola.

"It's just me Two-Bit. Pony's taking a shower." I finish pouring the remaining coffee into my thermos and cap it.

Two-Bit drops the beer and the soda onto the couch; they bounce lightly on the cushions. "Well, then. How's it hanging Darrel? Low and steady or hard and fast?" He grins.

I shake my head, ignoring him. "I gotta get going."

Two-Bit cocks his head. "The boss wouldn't ease up any? Give you any more time off?"

"Time off they can spare," I say with a bitter laugh. "But the bills ain't gonna pay themselves." Sitting down on a chair, I start tugging on my work boots. "I really appreciate you doing this. I didn't want to leave him alone."

Two-Bit holds up a hand in protest. "I should be thanking you. It gets me out of school free and clear _and_ it makes me look like a saint."

"Oh yeah?" I grunt, tightening my last boot. "How's that?"

"Ms. Miller – you know the geography teacher – practically swooned when I told her I was taking care of Ponyboy Curtis." He nods conspiratorially. "She wants me."

Chuckling, I roll my eyes. "Two-Bit, she's 40." I don't mention the fact that I had a crush on her as well when she had been my teacher. Learning the state capitals had never been so easy when they were taught by Ms. Miller.

"So?"

Seeing that he's serious, I play along. "What about the fact that she's not a blonde?" I lift an eyebrow, imagining Ms. Miller's red curls.

Two-Bit clasps both hands to his heart, staggering backwards. "Darry! How can you be so harsh? So callous?" He shakes his head. "She just ain't Jayne. She ruined me for life. No one can compare."

"It's really a shame, Two-Bit," I agree, sympathetically. Two-Bit had taken Jayne Mansfield's recent death pretty hard. After Ponyboy had dragged him to one of her movies, Two-Bit had developed a devastating crush on her to the amusement of all of us.

"You'll find the blonde for you." I clap him on the back as I pass him. I scan the room for those newspapers Sodapop brought in yesterday but they've disappeared.

I hear the crack of a beer opening and I turn, quickly swiping it from Two-Bit. "Try to keep this place clean, ok? Don't burn the house down. No roughhousing and if Pony wants to go out, you damn well go with him. Make sure the press ain't hanging around." I know if I don't drive the point home, Two-Bit will get lazy and Ponyboy will get his way. He can talk Two-Bit into most anything.

Two-Bit raises an eyebrow and gestures wildly. "You want to write all those down, engrave them into marble and call them 'Darry's Twelve Commandments'?" He breaks off, insulted. "C'mon Darry. We'll be fine. _He'll_ be fine. I promise you." He holds his hand out. "Ahem."

Amused, I almost give him back his beer, wondering if I should tell him that there are only Ten Commandments when I suddenly remember the hospital. I pull the beer away from his outstretched hand. "And don't you dare let him smoke."

Two-Bit hangs his head sheepishly. "Oh, you heard about that huh?"

"Yeah, I did." I cross my arms, giving him a look to let him know I'm serious. "I mean it."

"Aye, aye captain!" Two-Bit salutes me. Then the joking looks falls away and he clears his throat. "So…uh, how's the kid doin'?"

I give him back his beer. "He's been better," I say, at a loss for how to accurately describe Ponyboy. I don't even know for sure myself; usually, Ponyboy wears his heart on his sleeve, his emotions open. However, now he's a mess of anxiety, pain and anger all rolled into one and I'm not sure what he's feeling.

"Don't worry, Dar," Two-Bit reassures. "I'll make him laugh," he says as Ponyboy enters the room.

"Hey Two-Bit," Pony says in a low voice, giving us both a suspicious glance. Then, he does a double take at Two-Bit's outfit: the plaid pants, collared shirt. "You go golfin' or something?"

Two-Bit and I smile in unison with Two-Bit letting out a huge guffaw. He reaches over to ruffle Pony's wet hair. "Oh, kid. You really got some zingers in you."

Pony tries to duck Two-Bit's reach, sidling up to me. "Don't forget these," he says, handing me my car keys and wallet.

"Thanks, kiddo. I'll call you later," I say, ruffling his hair myself. "Be good, Pone." He rolls his eyes.

As I step outside, the door shutting behind me I'm hit with déjà vu. I think of the last time I left Ponyboy and went to work and grit my teeth. _He'll be fine._ It's all I can do to not turn around and go back inside.

XXXXX

10:55 a.m.

September 2, 1967

From his place parked across the street, Blonde watches one of the brothers climb into his rusted truck and drive away. The other one had left earlier today, but now it looks like they got the boy a babysitter. It's just going to be that much harder to get the boy alone. His hands grip the steering wheel fiercely.

Again, Blonde curses the day he ever brought Sammy into this. If it weren't for him, he wouldn't have to take care of this. He wouldn't be waiting to grab the little brat and finish the job. If only it had been Stan. Then it would have been easy, less messy. Everyone – Stan included – would have walked away. Stan wasn't the real target, just bait.

But now…

Now, Blonde has to get rid of the evidence. It's all they have on him, and when it's gone…well, he'll disappear too.

He smiles, chuckling, baring his teeth in the rearview mirror.

XXXXX

1:06 p.m.

September 2, 1967

"Two-Bit…" I begin, reluctant to start another long, drawn out, mock argument. "That's not how you spell 'rhyme'."

He looks at the scrabble board with confusion and scratches his head. "It's a word ain't it? Rhymes with lime." He laughs at his own joke and takes a sip of beer.

I sigh. So far, the day has consisted of board and card games. Two-Bit had seemed wary about going anyplace and truthfully, I feel the same way. It's safe here in my home, away from the outside, from _him_.

Trying to disregard these thoughts, I point at the scrabble tiles where Two-Bit has spelled 'Rhyme' as 'Rime'. "Yes, but it's…" I shake my head impatiently. "It has an h in it. It's not spelled like lime."

"R-h-i-m-e?"

I bite my lip, unsure whether to start laughing or scream in frustration. "Noooo…R-h-y-m-e. Rhyme."

Two-Bit blinks. "Where'd the 'y' come from? Who's the genius who thought that up?" He thinks for a moment and then removes the e. "There, smarty pants. Rim."

I count his points and write them down on the score pad. "300 to 190," I announce somewhat surprised. I'm not up for this game; it's an effort to even think of what to spell. So far, my words have consisted mostly of "the", "cat", "in" and "open".

"Shit," Two-Bit swears. "You're kicking my ass." From his spot on the living room rug, he cranes his neck back to glance at the clock in the kitchen. "You want some lunch? I can make us a sandwich but I work for tips." Two-Bit waggles his eyebrows.

I shut my eyes briefly; everything seems so loud all of a sudden. Like the night before, my chest tightens and I feel claustrophobic. I press my fingertips to my clammy forehead. "No," I murmur. "I'm not hungry."

Two-Bit's brow is furrowed. "Kid, you ain't gonna get sick on me are you?" Concerned, he touches my forehead with his palm.

"I'm fine," I mutter, brushing him off. "Can we just watch some TV?" Reaching out, I turn the knob, bringing our TV to life. I rub the crook of my arm absentmindedly and watch the black and white pictures with detachment.

Sitting back on his heels, Two-Bit's face clouds up. "Pony, what are you doing?"

I blink. "What?"

"You ain't gotta pretend, kid." Two-Bit says. "We all know it's not gonna go back to what it was…at least right away." His eyes are earnest, uneasy.

"You sound like Darry," I snap, ignoring his truth. "Just butt out." I don't want to listen to this. I can't do it now. Not in front of Two-Bit, not anyone. _Damn it. Damn it. Damn it_.

Two-Bit could get mad, but he doesn't. Instead, he nods thoughtfully. "Ain't gonna happen, Ponyboy."

XXXXX

4:44 p.m.

September 2, 1967

"You going out?" Connie asks, setting aside her book.

I nod. "Going to see Ponyboy Curtis." I see Connie hesitate. "What?"

"Will," she begins. "Don't you have everything you need? I know you've interview that boy at least half a dozen times."

"Only three," I say without missing a beat.

Connie smiles ruefully. "Well, we can't have that." She picks her book back up. "Go on. Do what you have to."

"I'm not going to miss anything this time, Con." I grab a chocolate chip cookie from the jar and take a bite.

She frowns, her smile falling away. "Will, you need to stop it with Chris. No more. Don't listen to the press, to anyone." Her face is dark and I know she is thinking of her sister, Lisa.

"Don't worry. I already know that she thinks I'm going to botch this one too." I'm more amused than angry with Lisa and her convictions. She just wants everyone to heal; she wants to patch the wounds that I create.

Connie snaps her book shut. "Don't get me started. I already told her—"

"Hon," I soothe. "It's fine. I'm a big boy." Leaning down, I kiss her cheek. She smells like lilac and cinnamon and I kiss her again.

"Hmmph," Connie snorts, refusing to be swayed. She watches me slip into my jacket and steal another cookie. "Good luck," she murmurs.

I'm going to need all the luck I can get tonight if I'm going to get past Darry Curtis and get Ponyboy to give me something I can use.

XXXXX

Please review!


	7. Chapter 7

Hi everyone. Another chapter…please read and review. I sincerely appreciate everyone who takes the time.

Disclaimer: I own no characters (minus Jessup et al) the rest belong to the great SE Hinton.

XXXXX

I was never enough, never enough, never enough,  
but I can try, I can try to toughen up.  
I listened when they told me  
If he burns you, let him go.  
Change is hard, I should know.  
I should know.

--She and Him

XXXXX

5:46 pm

September 2, 1967

As much as it should be, it's not a comforting feeling sitting across from William Jessup. Soda has gone to get Ponyboy, leaving me and Jessup with a tense silence. I remind myself that he's done his best, done what's realistically possible but Lisa Paillard's and the press's words tail my internal reassurances.

Earlier, when I had arrived home with barely a moment to spare before Jessup showed up, I had found an anxious looking Two-Bit. "He didn't want to do anything today, Dar." Two-Bit explained with frustration. "That kid shut me down faster than Gloria Thomas did in 9th grade."

I shift in my recliner. "You still looking for leads?"

"We may have one…but right now it's no more than a hunch." Jessup's thin smile tells me he won't say much more. "Hopefully Ponyboy can help us."

I eye Jessup. "I don't know what more he can help you with. He's already told you what he can."

"Often they know much more than they remember," Jessup responds.

"What if he doesn't?" I ask, nerves bristling. "What if you're bothering with him for nothing?"

I've tried not to work myself up but now it's a lot harder to follow through on. The bitterness is unfair to Jessup, but I know that once I start talking, I'll start to yell and things will go downhill from there. The last thing I want to do is make a scene in front of my brothers.

Jessup holds up his hand in protest or surrender. "I won't ask for more than he can give, Darrell."

I lean forward in my chair, my ire increased at Jessup's nonchalant tone. "I just want to know that you can find this guy even if Ponyboy has nothing."

Jessup meets my eyes. "We'll get him. This isn't like the Bethlehem Case. Ponyboy doesn't have to worry about—"

"He doesn't know about that." Jessup blinks and I continue. "I'd like to keep it that way."

Jessup's rough fingers tug at his mustache. "Of course."

"Soda…it won't hurt anything…" Pony's hoarse voice floats down the hallway. Both Jessup and I turn to see my two brothers round the corner.

Soda, still dressed in his DX jumpsuit, bunches his hands up into tight balls. "Kiddo…you know what the doctor said. It irritates the throat." Soda juts his chin at me. "'Sides, we already know about the hospital. So you can just forget smoking for a while."

Soda's jaw tightens and then he tosses me a pack of smokes. "I caught him with these."

Ponyboy stares at Soda, his face distrustful. I don't say anything; just shoot Pony a look and pocket the smokes. I figure Soda ratting him out is already harsh enough punishment.

"Hi, son." Jessup stands up.

Dragging his accusing eyes away from Sodapop, Ponyboy says, "Hey." He crosses his arms, moving closer to me. "More questions?"

Jessup looks at me. "I'd like to speak with him privately."

"Darry…" Soda objects.

Ignoring Soda, I say to Pony: "You okay with that?"

Pony gives me a crooked smile. "Sure, Dar."

I squeeze his shoulder, not up to trusting his crooked smiles these days. There's still too much wariness in them. "We'll wait on the porch," I say, leaving Jessup to talk with Ponyboy.

XXXXX

6:02 pm

September 2, 1967

The boy watches his brothers leave. When the screen door slams shut, he settles down in the recliner. I sit back on the couch, sinking low into the cushions. Ponyboy Curtis looks like he's spent the night in a trench; his brown hair is mussed, eyes bloodshot. He sits there, wearing a too-big-for-him t-shirt and bare feet.

"How're you doing Ponyboy?"

He shrugs. "I live and breathe."

Impressed, I raise an eyebrow. "Aptly said."

The phone rings and we both jump. I wait for the boy to pick it up but he just sits there. "Reporters," he explains in a raspy voice. "They've been calling from the moment I walked in the door."

"They camp outside yet?"

His eyes grow round and he chuckles. "If they did that I'm sure Darry'd be out there with the shotgun."

The kid's lucky; I can see he knows this, perhaps a bit put off by it. He's surrounded by people who'll fight for him; I just hope _he's_ ready to fight.

Ponyboy gives me a real grin, his eyes losing some of their deadened look. He takes a quick peek at the screen door where his brothers are loitering on the porch. He lowers his voice. "Did Darry give you a hard time about the Bethlehem case?"

Surprised, I ask, "How'd you find out about that?" He's quiet and I continue. "Darrell sure seemed pretty adamant about you keeping away from any sort of press."

Sheepish, he runs a hand through his hair, looking like a five-year old getting caught pulling the cat's tail. "I can read. I ain't stupid." The hair he has pushed back falls across his brow again. "I already know how it…ends."

"And I take it they don't know about your discovery?" The kid's stealthy, I'll give him that.

"No." Ponyboy's face crinkles up. "The minute I read about Chris…I knew…the way they're acting…they think I'm better off blind and deaf."

"Can you blame them?" The minute I say this, I know it's not about the case. It's about Ponyboy. The questions are personal. I curse my stupidity, wishing I had brought Benji along to keep me on track.

Pony pales slightly and whispers, "I'm not Chris." He watches me with those green eyes of his; understanding so palpable it's scary. He's only 15 and already I feel as if the kid gets things better than most adults.

"I'm sorry." I pick my notebook up, flipping to the questions I had jotted down at the stop signs on the drive over. "Let's get back to the facts." Inadvertently, I glance at the screen door where his brothers are.

Dismayed, Pony watches me for a moment and then groans. "But doesn't it bother you? The newspapers? Having _everyone_ always come back to Chris no matter how hard you try at everything else?"

Somehow I don't think we're talking about me. I eye him and shift my weight on the sofa. I pull out my pack of gum, unwrapping a piece. Pony shakes his head as I offer him a stick. "Not anymore. It's part of the past. Something to live with."

"Then why didn't _he_?" The question is earnest, near pleading and I know he means Chris Bethlehem.

I bite the inside of my lip, unsure as to how to continue. I shouldn't get into this, get personal; but everything in my gut tells me too. I owe it to him; if nothing else maybe it will get him to open up. Clearing the lump in my throat, I rub my brow. The kid's waiting, holding his breath.

A brief image flashes before me: Chris Bethlehem crying after they found him, Lisa comforting in her soft voice. Chris's monotone responses, shielded stance. I can't help myself; I compare him to Ponyboy.

I take a breath and speak. "Chris was long gone before Lewis got released but he was coping. Then when Lewis got off…well, that was the breaking point. Chris was so paranoid something would happen…and when it did it proved Chris right. Like you said…you know how it ends."

Ponyboy glances quickly at the screen door, understanding dawning on his face. "They're worried about that? They think I'll…" He trails off.

"I reckon that's it." I set my notepad aside. "Maybe if you talked to them…"

His young face grows angry. "I don't even know how to _act_ around them. What makes you think I'll know what to _say_?"

"Pony, listen to me," I say, getting his attention. "If I told you I didn't lie awake at night thinking of Chris – about some of my cases – I'd be lying. With your case, I played it all out in my head: I knew what you did the day of, where you were walking, who you talked to, everything up until you disappeared. I wish I had more answers, Ponyboy. But that's why I'm here."

"Answers." He nods.

Ponyboy stands up, walking over to the fireplace mantle. He stares at the photo of a man and woman. They're outside, underneath a large oak tree. The man wears blue jeans and a gray t-shirt; looking so much like Darry Curtis it's eerie. He's laughing, his arm thrown around the woman leaning into his right side. She's smiling softly, almost amused, long auburn hair blowing across her face. She's reaching out, pointing at something the camera can't capture.

"Your parents?" I ask.

A ghost of a wistful smile crosses his face. "Yeah. Two-Bit—" He looks at me. "You know, Keith – Mathews actually took this picture. It was the summer when Steve and Soda learned how to hotwire a car." Pony's voice takes on a dreamy quality. "Darry took the truck out one night, on a date. The next morning it was gone and everyone let him think he had left the keys in the ignition…that someone had stolen our dads' truck. But really Steve had hotwired it." Pony traces the frame and then knocks the mantle with his fist. "Mom was laughin' 'cause Steve had just pulled up in the truck with about four girls from high school. Darry was swearing up a storm."

"I still remember that…" he finishes softly. "Sometimes I wish I wouldn't."

XXXXX

6:59 pm

September 2, 1967

"They knew I – Stanley had money…and they wanted it." I search my memory. "When I told Blonde I didn't have any, he called me a liar…"

I'm in the middle of answering Jessup's questions, it's been nearly an hour and I don't remember anything new…anything significant. Darry and Soda have long since come in, impatient at letting Jessup ask me his drawn out questions.

So far, I've given him nothing and he's let me know that Freckle's real name was Sam Verben, 22 of Plato, Missouri. No relation to the Ezra family.

Darry is hovering behind me in the recliner while Sodapop lounges on the floor eating a piece of chocolate cake. Oddly, their presences are reassuring instead of overbearing. I feel nervous being away from them…as if I'd disappear again. This time for good.

"Blonde knew Stan. I know it." I reiterate, frustrated I don't have more for him. I don't even have a straight description. All I have is their words and my memory. I need to think quick because I don't want to spend another minute here rehashing the past.

"Are you sure?" Jessup cocks an eyebrow, his pen poised. "Think. Take your time."

My fingers dig into the recliner's arms, my brain scouring those days when I was gone. The words they spoke, the things they did. It's a quick scan and surprisingly, painfully, I remember. I suck in a breath, my chest hitching. I feel Darry's strong hand on my back.

"Sam told Blonde…," I begin hesitantly. "_'__You shoulda done it. You woulda known if it was him or not.'_". I lean back into the soft chair, a weight lifted, exhausted at the memory.

Jessup doesn't write anything down. "You did good, Ponyboy. Real good." His smile is strained, his eyes resigned. At that moment, my belly flops over.

I lean forward. "_You_ know it."

XXXXX

9:18 am

September 3, 1967

"Tony the Tiger at your service…"

I watch him warily from my bedroom doorway. His eyes meet mine and then he hangs up the phone.

XXXXX

12:49 pm

September 3, 1967

"Duke of Earl—"

He grins. "Oh hey, Darry." The phone is reached out towards me and I take it.

Darry's voice is soft as he asks me how I am. I haven't been sleeping and he knows this. I nod and agree and say all the right things that Darry wants to hear. But when I hang up the phone I feel like a liar.

XXXXX

4:59 pm

September 3, 1967

He lays his cards down. "Mr. Tambourine Man speak—" Two-Bit's eyes narrow, shoulders tensing. He does his best to move into the kitchen but I can still hear him. "Yeah. I know who you are. You're writing all those nasty articles," he hisses.

Inconspicuously, I watch him pace across the floor. The front door opens and Sodapop walks in, Steve trailing. Steve reeks of smoke and enviously I take a deep breath.

Soda's face clouds, seeing Two-Bit on the phone.

"It's the newspaper," I tell Soda absentmindedly.

Steve looks down at me. "You have a flush," he says almost proudly.

I slap my cards down, embarrassed. "I'm out."

XXXXX

2:13 pm

September 4, 1967

"Mack the Knife here…" He cocks his head, his sideburns longer than ever. I raise an eyebrow and go back to my book.

XXXXX

11:11 am

September 4, 1967

"Puff the Magic Dragon residence."

Another click as the phone is replaced. "You should turn that off," Two-Bit says.

I keep watching the TV. It's another story about me and the kidnapping. Then they recount Dallas's shooting and Johnny's death and it's all too much. Two-Bit shuts the TV off with a sharp snap.

XXXXX

3:26 pm

September 6, 1967

"Hello. This is Lucy in the Sky with Diamonds. May I ask who's calling?" Taking a sip of beer, Two-Bit settles on the sofa, the long phone cord tangling around him. "Well, I'm not sure. I don't think I have kaleidoscope eyes."

He listens for a moment. "Hello? Hello?"

I choke on a laugh as he pulls himself up to place the phone back on the hook. The smile's a rubbery feeling on my face. As strange as it feels I hope it stays there.

XXXXX

Thanks for reading…please review and I'll update soon. Peace! Pardon any typos.


	8. Chapter 8

Sorry for the long, long, long hiatus. I hit a road block. But here is a long chapter – thanks for being patient and please review.

Calla Lilly Rose – yes, I am alive! Thanks for urging me on! This one's for you!

XXXXX

6:50 pm

September 8, 1967

There's a tap on the bedroom door. Soda pokes his head in, still dressed in his DX uniform. "Hey, I'm home."

I lower my book, but am careful not to set it down; I don't want to invite conversation. For the last few days, Soda seems to have something to say, although he hasn't quite found the way to say it. "Two-Bit leave?"

"Yeah." Soda pats his pockets and pulls out a shiny object. He tosses it to me and I catch it with one hand.

It's a key. "What's this?" I ask even though I know very well what it is.

"Our house key," Soda explains; his dark eyes are serious. "Darry scrounged them up. We're gonna start locking the doors around here." The expression on my face causes Soda to cross the room quickly, sitting down beside me. "Hey, it's ok, Pone. We just want to be careful."

I wince inwardly at Soda's reminder that things are still not right. An admittance that even my brother's are worried. "But – But," I stutter. "I don't want things to be different. They don't have to be—"

Soda wraps an arm around me. "Nothing's changing." He smiles. "Except now we can change the locks on Steve and Two-Bit."

I stare down at the book in my lap. "Kiddo," Soda says, tightening his grip on my shoulders. "You haven't really…well…um…"

Soda's nervous; I can tell from the way he stammers and the way he runs a hand through his messy hair. Finally he blurts, "You haven't talked to me and Darry about what happened. And you know you can right? You know whatever you say won't matter."

But it will. When they hear how I gave up, on them and on myself; how I talked to people who weren't there, it really will matter. "Soda," I shrug him off. "I don't want to talk about it."

"But Pony—"

"No," I refuse, shifting on the bed, away from Soda. The book slides from my lap and hits the ground with a dull thud. I wish I were as strong as Darry and as positive as Sodapop. But I know what I am and ready to talk isn't one of them.

XXXXX

3:16 pm

September 14, 1967

Another week has slowly crawled by. I've spent a lot of that time playing cards with Two-Bit and trying to act as normal as possible.

Eat. Breathe. Sleep. Repeat.

I don't know if anyone buys the act but at least I'm beginning to.

I slam the screen door shut behind me, leaving Two-Bit to devour what is left of the chocolate cake in peace. With a relieved sigh, I lean against the porch railing. My eyes brush across our yard; our lawn needs a good mowing. The neighborhood is quiet, most people at work or school.

An empty beer can rolls down our street, propelled by the breeze. It's a funny tinkling sound, almost eerie in the afternoon stillness. I shield my eyes against the sun and squint into the wind.

Nervously, I dart a glance into the house. Two-Bit is still engrossed in the TV and chocolate cake. Then, pulling out my pack of smokes I hold it in my palm, weighing the consequences of getting caught by Darry or Two-Bit. "Screw it," I mumble as my hands find their way, pulling out a lone stick.

An engine cuts the air. I watch the red Corvair round the corner and light my smoke. It slows and pulls up to the curb in front of the house. My fingers twitch anxiously and I take a drag as Stanley Ezra climbs out of the car.

"Hey," I say through numb lips.

Stan stops at the curb. "Hey Curtis." He raises the backpack in his right hand. "I brought you your homework."

I grin slightly. "You figurin' I was bored or something?"

Stan begins to walk forward. "No. I just wanted an excuse to stop by." His eyes drop to the ground as he reaches the porch.

Shrugging my shoulders, I wrap a hand around the railing, my knuckles white. "You shouldn't have. I'm going back to school Monday."

For the last two days, Darry and Soda have been debating about whether or not it's the right time for me to go back to school. I don't want to go back, but I had argued with them that I should because that seemed like a normal thing for me to do.

I've missed two weeks already, but judging by the circumstances I don't think any of my teachers are going to have it in their hearts to flunk me.

Finally, Darry had left it up to me. "Pone," he said. "It's your call."

I ignored the sick churning in my stomach and said in a voice I didn't recognize, "Sure, Darry. It'll be fine."

It's something I hate to admit, but it scares me to leave the house and have my brothers so far away. Even the locking of our doors has calmed me. I hate the fact that Blonde has had the ability to affect me so much.

Stan's face is mortified when he looks up. "I'm sorry I didn't come sooner. Hell, I'm sorry about everything."

"It's not your fault," I tell him. I take in his guilty face and know it can't be easy from his side either. "You couldn't have known."

"No," he says in a low voice. "I couldn't have." I shoot Stan a sharp glance. Something in his loaded tone reveals more than his words do.

"So, uh, you ready to come back to school?" he asks. "Escape your babysitter?" Stan's smile is forced, our conversation taking a turn towards awkward.

"I guess," I laugh and nod towards the screen door. "Although, I'm not really escaping Two-Bit. He'll be back at school too."

"Ponyboy Curtis!" Two-Bit's voice rings out. "You have ten seconds to throw out that cigarette. If I catch you with it, you'll force me to tell Darry."

I grin, take one last puff and toss my cigarette into the dirt. At least Two-Bit gives me plenty of loopholes to avoid getting into trouble. I look at Stan. "You better go."

"Sure." He sets the backpack full of books on the front step. "See you Monday."

"See you Monday," I echo.

XXXXX

12:12 pm

September 17, 1967

School has been less painful then I had thought it would be. When I had run away to Windrixville, I had returned to a multitude of questions and angry jabs, now I'm met with sympathetic eyes and a lot of _how are you's_? Teachers are pleasant and forgiving, even the Socs don't have a lot to say.

I take my lunch and go sit on a bench outside, hoping to evade Two-Bit for an hour at least. He's been hovering the entire day, even Steve has been walking by my locker once or twice. There's a noise behind me and I turn to see Stan Ezra. He's wearing a dark gray windbreaker and a baseball cap. A gym bag is slung over his shoulder.

"Hey," he greets me.

"How's it going, Stan?" I shove my uneaten chips back into the paper bag.

"Not much. Headed to practice." He gives me a grin. "You gotta come back soon. Give me an opportunity to beat you."

"Right," I snort. "I think Lou Emerson could beat me," I say referring to the slowest member on our track team.

"I doubt it." Stan raises an eyebrow. "You're a fast runner." Then Stan jogs off down the schoolyard toward the locker rooms. I watch him enviously but my gaze is suddenly drawn to a car parked across the street. The car slowly pulls away from the curb, does a u-turn and drives off down Euclid Avenue.

I let out a breath I haven't been aware I've been holding.

XXXXX

6:45 am

September 18, 1967

Steve catches me with the paper the next morning. I've been reading about my return to school, Jessup's inability to catch my kidnapper and the Bethlehem family's feelings on the whole ordeal.

"I don't think you're supposed to see that," Steve says, entering the kitchen, shoving the key that Soda has given him into his pocket.

"It's ok, Steve." I fold the paper over, smoothing out the creases. "They can't hide the paper from me forever."

Steve smirks. "I think they'll try."

Shoving the papers across the table, my eyes flutter to the clock hovering above the entryway between the kitchen and living room. I take the last bite of my cereal, knowing I'd better leave now if I don't want to be late.

"You want to ride with me to school?" Steve offers.

Somewhat shocked at Steve's blatant gesture, I balk for a moment. But I've learned my lesson about turning down rides and so I say, "thanks," and accept. Steve pours himself a bowl of cereal, grabs a spoon and sits down at the table. "I saw you talkin' to that Ezra kid yesterday at lunch."

I set my jaw. "So?"

"So…I think you should stay away from that Soc. He's bad news. He got you into this mess."

I don't get Stan's constant need to check up on me, but I don't tell his to Steve. Instead, I say, "Why don't you let me worry about that?"

Scowling, Steve points his spoon at me. "I'll let Darry worry about it if you keep it up. Something's not right with that family."

I sit back in my chair and glare at Steve. But what he has said has got me thinking. Stan may know much more than he lets on. And if he does, I intend to find out.

XXXXX

1:59 pm

September 18, 1967

I watch Hannah Ezra as she waits for the call. She's in the telephone booth on the corner of Terra Avenue and Mitchell Drive. I'm in a street car, parked about two blocks down, my binoculars giving me a good view.

The phone rings and she answers it. Beside me, Benji says, "She's nervous."

I nod. "She sure is."

Hannah covers her eyes with her hand, her mouth moving wildly. Suddenly, she slams her fist against the glass and begins to cry. Another moment passes and she's quiet, listening intently.

Benji whistles, "Boy, Jessup, what I wouldn't give to be a fly in that booth."

I've known it since our last meeting, but this confirms my suspicions. Hannah Ezra, either indirectly or directly, has something to do with Ponyboy's kidnapping. She, and possibly her husband and son, know the kidnapper.

Hannah hangs the phone up. She stays in the booth for about three minutes and then exits. Glancing around her fearfully, she hops in her Cadillac and drives off.

I start up the car and head toward the station. I need to give Darry Curtis a call to let him know something's going on.

XXXXX

4:02 pm

September 18, 1967

"Stan," I call out, hurrying to catch up with him as he leaves the locker room.

He blinks seeing me approach. "Curtis, what's goin' on?"

I decide to get to the point. "You know something don't you?"

Stan pales but plays it cool. "What are you talking about?"

"About the kidnapping, who took me. Who wanted you." I quicken my pace to keep up with him.

"I don't know shit," he snaps, stopping abruptly. "And I don't know what the hell you want with it anyways."

A frown creases my brow. "If you know who did it, you can tell the police." At his silence, I warn, "Jessup knows too." At my last questioning it had been obvious that Jessup was focusing on Stan's family.

"Look," Stan says, his eyes flashing. "I'm sorry about what happened to you. But you got it all wrong. So leave me out of this." He gives me a quick shove backwards and then takes off across the track.

"God damn it," I swear angrily, knowing I'm not wrong.

XXXXX

4:45 pm

September 18, 1967

Ponyboy comes stomping into the house twenty minutes after I've sent Soda and Two-Bit to look for him.

"Jesus, Pone. Where've you been?" I ask, my relief slowly fading to irritation.

Surprised at the question, he glances at the clock. "I stayed to watch track practice," he mumbles, sidestepping me. Ponyboy's face is almost angry, a change from the deadened look he's gotten used to wearing.

I force myself to stay calm. "Pony, you need to call if you're going to be late. Also, didn't I tell you not to walk home alone?" It's one of the few things Soda and I have asked him to do. Lock the door and walk home with someone.

"Yeah, you did. I'm sorry Darry," he replies, getting himself a glass of water. He chugs it and refills his glass.

I watch my brother with a growing wariness. He still won't talk; even Soda's appeals have fallen on his deaf ears. I'm worried he's going to hold it in so long and so far down that one day he'll just implode. Sometimes all I do is want to yell at him, tell him to "pull the ripcord" and just let it out.

"I got a call from Jessup today," I begin. Ponyboy freezes, setting his glass on the counter. "He seems to think that the Ezra family is more involved in this than they've let on." I place a hand on his shoulder. "You keep your distance from Stanley Ezra, ok?"

Ponyboy nods mutely.

XXXXX

3:16 pm

September 21, 1967

"Thanks for the ride Two-Bit," I say, climbing out of his truck.

"Not a problem, Pone." He leans over and hands me my backpack.

Taking it, I slam the passenger side door shut. "You coming back over tonight?"

Two-Bit drums his fingers on the steering wheel. "It's Friday. Hard to say whether or not I have a date tonight."

Laughing, I roll my eyes. "But you're going to go find one aren't you?"

He shrugs, revving the engine. "Hey, even a blind squirrel finds a nut every now and then." Two-Bit smiles. "See ya, kid."

I watch him drive off; holding my breath as Two-Bit narrowly misses taking out our mailbox. I climb the stairs and hover by the front door, trying to find the key buried in my pocket. After sifting through change and lint, I finally find it.

As my left hand grips the doorknob, the right preparing to stick the key in, the doorknob turns in my palm. Frowning, I pause outside the cracked door and set my backpack down. I had been sure I locked the door before I left for school this morning.

I push the door open wider and step inside, my heart beating in my chest. "Soda?" I call out, expecting to find my brother making a mess in the kitchen. Instead the house is silent, as I take a few more steps inside.

The voice inside of me is screaming for me to get out of there. Reaching the kitchen, I survey it quickly and then turn to leave. But the door's shut when I turn around, Blonde's blocking the way.

At first all I can do is will him to be a figment of my imagination but I know he isn't. _He came back, he came back, he came back _is all I can think_._ Blonde smiles; his teeth are yellow and rotten. "You miss me?"

I don't say anything, my brain trying to come up with a plan. Instantly, I know it was him I saw in the car parked outside of school.

Blonde takes a step forward. "Took me a while you get you alone…but it finally happened." He chuckles. "You should be dead back there at that cabin."

"Yeah, along with Sammy, right?" I finally choke out, hoping to divert him.

Blonde pales, snarling, "Shut your mouth, you little shit."

"Ok," I agree.

_Do it now_, a voice whispers.

Suddenly, I dart backwards and grab up Darry's coffee pot. I hurl it towards Blonde and it strikes the door. Glass shatters everywhere and Blonde swears again. Seeing my chance at his distraction, I take off through the kitchen and down the hall, hearing Blonde's footsteps behind me.

I slip in the hall, grabbing the bathroom doorknob to pull myself up and then round the corner into Darry's bedroom. My eyes find their target and I grab the Louisville Slugger Darry keeps behind his dresser.

There's no time to think as Blonde comes charging into the room. Using all of my might, I swing that bat right into Blonde's face. There's a sickening crunch as wood meets bone. "Go to hell," I say as he crumples to the floor. He's still.

Adrenaline pumping, I toss the bat to the ground, wheeling around and out of Darry's room. I run through the living room, crunching on glass, pushing past the front door. I'm outside and I wince against the sun as I run down the steps. My legs tangle and I stumble, twisting my knee but I keep going.

Blindly, I dash into the road, dodging an oncoming Buick. It swerves, the driver cussing me out but I continue running down the middle of my street.

I can't stay in the house with Blonde; he's brought it all back, I have to get away.

There's another truck ahead and I see with relief that it's Soda and Steve. I pick up the pace, half-running, half-limping towards them. The truck abruptly halts as Steve mouths something to Sodapop and points at me. Both doors are thrown open and they tumble out.

"Soda!" I holler, rushing to him.

"Pone? Pony!" Soda yells, alarmed. We nearly collide with each other but Soda has his arms out, catching me. "What happened?"

I pull away, tugging him towards the house. "Soda, he came back. He came to the house."

"Jesus," Steve says darkly as a desperate look crosses Soda's face.

"C'mon," I urge, taking off again. Even with a limp I'm faster than the two of them as they trail me. I trip again when we reach the steps; Soda grabs my elbow, Steve the other.

Soda slows me down, halting outside the front door. "Did he hurt you?" he asks grimly. "Kiddo?" he shakes me when I don't answer.

"No," I smirk. "Other way around. I took Darry's slugger to his face."

When we reach the bedroom we all freeze: Blonde's gone. All that remains is the bloody bat and muddy footprints Blonde dragged in with him.

I shake my head, distraught. I had been so sure this had been it. My eye catches the back door flapping open and I make a move.

"No," Steve's arm comes out, barricading me. "Stay here, I'll go." He disappears out the back door.

I don't know whether to laugh or cry at the absurdity of it all. So I just nod and sink down to the floor, my legs going to jelly beneath me.

Soda just looks at me.

XXXXX

Please review. I hope this story is not dragging…I promise I'll wrap it up soon.

Thanks for reading!! Pardon any tense/grammar issues...


	9. Chapter 9

Long chapter for you AND a fast update. I think that guarantees reviews doesn't it? Anyways, enough with the delay…read on and review!

p.s. I am going out of town for the weekend – so this will have to last you! : )

XXXXX

Take apart your bones and out 'em back together

Tell your mother that you are somebody new

Feel the breeze blow and tell 'em all, "Look out here it comes!"

Now I can say whatever I feel like to you

--The White Stripes

XXXXX

4:02 pm

September 21, 1967

The lights greeting me as I swerve into our driveway cause my stomach to jump into my throat. Two police cruisers sit outside, a few cops hovering on the porch smoking.

Jessup's phone call had been curt. I hadn't even heard from Sodapop, which worried me even more. "Darrel," Jessup had said. "You need to get to home now. Pony's kidnapper came to the house." That was all he had said. I had shouted a quick goodbye to my boss and was out the door.

Now, I throw the truck into park and climb out, unsure what to expect. My brain plays cruel tricks on me, forcing me to think the worst. "I'm Darrel Curtis," I tell the cops outside the front door as they stand to attention. "I live here." My eyes flicker behind them, trying to see what's going on inside.

"Darrel!" Benji waves me inside. "It's ok guys," he tells the cops, grabbing my arm and pulling me through the mass of people.

"Benji, what the hell happened?" I snap angrily. "I get a phone call and no one's saying any—" That's when I see them; Sodapop and Ponyboy. Soda's on the couch, Ponyboy sitting next to him, head in his hands. Soda says something to Jessup and then ducks his head close to Ponyboy, whispering.

Benji stops me from moving forward. "Ponyboy's kidnapper came back. Apparently, from what Pony has said…he came home to find the door unlocked. Blonde was inside and a struggle ensued."

"Is he ok?"

"He's shook up," Benji adds. "But not hurt."

I touch my chin, thinking. "What about the guy?"

Benji inadvertently grins. "Pony smashed him in the face with your Louisville Slugger."

This barely registers with me. Impatient, I lean in close. "That's not what I meant. Did you catch him?"

Wincing, Benji lowers his voice. "No, I'm sorry. Detective Jessup's trying to get as much information—as much of a description—as he can from Ponyboy."

I'm angry now and my fists ball up. Instead of making any progress, the cops just keep going around in circles, tripping over their own feet. "You better get on this thing," I snap. "Because while you're dickin' around, my brother's going through hell. He's had enough of this bullshit."

Steve emerges from the kitchen, crossing the floor. Glass crunches beneath his feet. We make eye contact and then he's squatting down next to Ponyboy. "Here, kid." Steve puts a bag of ice on Pony's knee and holds it there. Pony doesn't raise his head but I hear his soft murmur of thanks.

I jab my finger into Benji's chest, drawing myself up. "You got it?" Then, I leave Benji and go join my brothers. Soda's dark eyes widen in relief as I sit down next to Ponyboy. I put a hand on Pony's back. "You ok, Pone?" Face still in his hands, he nods. "You hurt your knee?" I ask. Another nod. Steve stands up, letting me steady the ice.

Jessup's deep voice rumbles, "I'm sorry I had to call you for this."

I give him a pointed look. "So am I."

"Darry," Jessup begins. "He unfortunately got away…we have a search team out…but I advise you to watch your brother closely." He lowers his voice as if Ponyboy can't hear him. "He came back once, he'll try again."

Ponyboy's shoulders go rigid beneath my palm. My jaw clenches. "Sure. We'll do our job. You just do yours." I keep my hand on Ponyboy's back, rubbing it softly, the slow circles calming myself as well. "Do you have everything you need, detective?" I don't look at Jessup, focusing on Ponyboy.

"Yes, sir," he replies. "I'll be in touch." Jessup snaps something to Benji and suddenly the house clears, leaving the three of us and Steve.

It's silent as I take in the trashed house. A chill goes through me; the thin veil of home and safety being violated. Muddy footsteps are tracked through the kitchen, into the hall. Shards of glass line the entry way.

Pony's so still I almost wonder if he's breathing. "Soda," I say in a low voice. He looks at me sharply. I nod at Pony, silently asking how long he's been like this.

"Since we called the cops," Soda says. "He told them what happened and then just clammed up."

The room's silent when suddenly, a guttural sound escapes Ponyboy's lips, making all of us jump. At first I think he's crying, but then realize it was a laugh. "Darry…I ruined your baseball bat."

I let out a breath. "Pone, don't worry about it. You put it to good use." I ruffle his hair. "The most I ever done is hit a few home runs in junior high."

He laughs again. It's soggy, as if his lungs are filled with water. "You need a new coffee pot too." Pony rubs his eyes and finally turns to look at me. His eyes are dry but red. "I broke it."

"That's ok, kiddo." I lean back against the couch. Reaching out, I rub my brother's hair. "That's ok."

XXXXX

5:23 pm

September 21, 1967

My room has never seemed so claustrophobic; the walls too white, the lights blinding. Numbly, I sit at my desk, hands on my knees, waiting. Moving will lead to thinking and I can't do that right now.

The phone rings and my ears pick up that it's Steve who answers. From his familiar tone, he's talking to Two-Bit, his voice is low, reassuring. Soda and Darry are busy picking up the mess of the house that Blonde and I have made.

Simultaneous feelings of anger and fear course through my body as I replay what has happened a mere two hours ago. "I'm so sick of it," I whisper to the empty room. I'm so sick of being scared for my life. Right now, I feel like a kid who's spent too much time at the carnival; when you come home the rush is over, you're tired, and all you want to do is cry.

I lick my dry lips and force down the bile threatening to rise. Instead, I focus on my throbbing knee.

There's a scurrying sound outside and Soda utters a curt, "Jesus Christ." I know they've found the bat and I briefly wonder if Darry will save it. A memento of sorts. A laugh erupts out of me and I clap a hand to my lips, horrified at my disturbed thoughts.

Shutting my eyes, the blackness swirls around me. It swirls until Blonde's face is suddenly in my mind. His yellow teeth, all crooked and rotten, his blonde choppy hair and sharp nose. This time a bit of stumble on his jaw.

My eyes flash open and as if a ghost is guiding me I pull out one of my desk drawers so hard the contents go flying. Pencils and papers explode in the air and despite the ache, I am on my knees grabbing up a number two pencil and a sheet of white paper.

There, in the middle of my bedroom, I begin to draw. Remembering is painful and unpleasant but I push through it. I have a clearer vision, a better view and I scribble intently.

Finished I sit back, exhausted and drained. But I shake my cramped wrist and examine the completed product. Staring back at me is a sketch of Blonde.

"Oh god," I breathe and choke on a sob.

XXXXX

5:27 pm

September 21, 1967

Darry examines the baseball bat carefully. His big hands grip the handle and I wince as he points the barrel at me. It's flecked with blood, pieces of wood splintered, the remnants lying on his bedroom floor. "And to think I wanted to get rid of this thing," he muses.

I watch Darry from my place in the doorway. I'm too tense to sit down, having been pacing the hallway for the last 15 minutes. I can still feel my legs pumping, running to keep up with Ponyboy. I had nearly gone crazy seeing him tear down the street hollering for me.

Sighing, Darry lowers the bat to the ground. "I don't know what we're going to do with this."

I know he's referring to the whole situation which has just occurred inside our house and not the bat, but I take it from him and reposition it behind his dresser. "Keep it."

He looks at me sharply and I see his expression coming through loud and clear. Darry's angry. The brother that fights in rumbles, who likes to show off his muscles can't be calmed much longer. Darry's mouth twists up in an odd grimace. "If that guy comes back here again, Sodapop, I swear to god I'll kill him."

XXXXX

7:10 am

September 22, 1967

"Whoa, what're you doing?" Soda asks the next morning. I freeze, in the act of tugging on my jacket. The night had been restless; I slept tossing and turning, finally rising at the crack of dawn anxious to get out of the house.

"I got class." I'm careful to avoid looking too much at the house for fear of reliving yesterday. Tunnel-vision overtakes me and all I see is my backpack and the front door. I have to get out of here. My hand moves to touch the piece of paper folded in my back pocket.

"Pony," he says in a soft voice. "I don't think that's such a hot idea." His eyes flicker towards Darry's bedroom, wishing Darry were up to help him out. But I know Soda won't wake my tired brother and so I persist.

"I can't stay here," I plead, edging towards the door, my hand already on the knob. "Soda…c'mon…"

Soda sighs, his brown eyes troubled. "At least let me drive you." He grabs the keys and ushers me out the door.

XXXXX

12:18 pm

September 22, 1967

I swap Steve my sandwich for a cigarette. "You sure you're not hungry?" he double-checks before biting into it. Two-Bit sits on the grass in front of us, drinking a beer he's managed to smuggle into school.

I don't want to be here. I don't want to be anywhere. Every place feels wrong, unsafe and foreign. But school isn't home and I suppose that's better than nothing.

"I had a big breakfast," I lie, watching him wolf down the sandwich. I shift my weight on the bench, stretching my leg out. I grimace as my knee pops. I sigh and say more to myself than to Steve and Two-Bit, "I'd give anything to run this season." My gaze shifts to the track longingly.

Steve gives me a look. "Sit still kid and shut up." But his voice is soft.

"You wait around for me after school, ya hear?" Two-Bit warns. "I'll take you home."

I am barely listening to Two-Bit. Sitting up straighter, my attention is drawn to the person trudging across the track. I rub my knuckles on my jeans anxiously. "Pone?" Two-Bit questions. "You okay?" Stan's crossing the field, bag slung over his shoulder, baseball cap drawn down tight.

"Kid?" Steve punches my arm roughly, giving me a jolt. "Wake up."

"You ready get along little doggie?" Two-Bit asks, standing up. He affects coolness when I know all he really wants to do is get me out of there and settle me down. "Cut some class early? Maybe go play some pinball?"

"No…" I say, distracted. Then, I shove myself off the bench. But it's too fast and my leg gives out. I swear and before either Two-Bit or Steve can grab me, I rally and jog slowly towards the track.

Stan's left the field by now but as I round the corner near the gym I find him by the chain link fence. "Stan!" I call out. Surprised, he spins around, taking off his cap. I reach him, limping the last few paces.

"I heard what happened," he says quietly. He's pale, his freckles standing out like patches on an Appaloosa. "Stay off that knee, Curtis. It'll only get worse."

"Tell me something I don't know." I pull out the sketch in my back pocket, unfolding it for him. I shake the paper in the wind and hold it out like a desperate person. "Do you know him?"

Stan frowns. "Who's that?"

"Blonde – the guy who kidnapped me."

"Never seen him before. I told the detective that and I'm telling you now."

"Take a closer look," I press, shoving the paper in his hands. "Maybe you have. Maybe you—"

"No! What the hell is wrong with you?" Stan shouts, taking a step backwards. He shoves the drawing at me as if it's on fire. "You need to get a grip, Curtis." He runs a shaky hand through his hair. "You're really losin' it, man. I mean it."

As Stan jogs off, I feel the last semblance of hope of slipping through my grasp. Holding on for so long has been a hard thing to do and this makes me feel frantic. Sickened at myself, at my situation, I crumple my sketch into a tight ball and pitch it into the wind. As it rolls across the grass, disappearing from my vision, I wish I could do the very same thing.

XXXXX

4:30 pm

September 22, 1967

Someone is talking very loud, nearly shouting. Scrunching my eyes shut, I roll over, tugging the blanket over my head. It's Darry. There's no responding voice and so I think Darry's either hit the loony bin and talking to himself or he's on the phone, which is also odd, because Darry's supposed to be at work.

But my thoughts give way to sleep as I drift off again. Within a few minutes, I'm being shaken awake. I jerk, suddenly realizing I'm on the couch in the living room. "Ponyboy." Darry's squatting next to me. "Kiddo, wake up." He places a hand under my head, lifting me up gently.

Yawning, I blink trying to get the sleep out of my eyes. "Was goin' on Darry?"

"Pone…" Darry looks physically ill; he's an odd shade of green.

"What happened?" I ask, instantly alert. Fear knots my belly as Darry places his hands on mine. He holds me still.

"Jessup called." Darry pauses, swallowing a lump in his throat. "He thinks they've arrested Blonde."

XXXXX

Please leave reviews. I adore them and thank you very much!

Pardon any typos!!


	10. Chapter 10

Once there was a way to get back homeward  
Once there was a way to get back home  
Sleep pretty darling do not cry  
And I will sing a lullaby

Golden slumbers fill your eyes  
Smiles awake you when you rise  
Sleep pretty darling do not cry  
And I will sing a lullaby

--The Beatles

XXXXX

A little angsty filled chapter, although I hope not cheesy, it's necessary. I just realized I have a lot more to tell before I wrap this up…so please stick with me. Please read and review and I will appreciate it more than you know.

Enjoy!

XXXXX

5:15 pm

September 22, 1967

Jessup's office has the air of a man in a hurry. Papers are strewn haphazardly across his desk, five coffee mugs stacked up in a corner, an overflowing waste basket near the door. I rub my hands on my jeans. "How long do you think this will take?" I ask Darry in a low voice. We're waiting for Jessup to situate the police lineup but already it feels like we've been waiting an eternity.

Darry glances at the door and then down at my bouncing leg. "Soon, kiddo. Try not to worry." Darry's not doing much better than I am; the worry lines in his forehead could write an epic novel.

"Will you call Sodapop?"

Darry lets out a breath. "Yeah, I guess I should." But he doesn't move.

I want both my brothers here. The prospect of possibly facing Blonde again leaves me not feeling too hot. Anxiousness is twisting my insides into tight coils. "I don't want to do this Darry."

Surprised at my admission, Darry scoots forward in his chair, gripping my forearm. "You can do this, Pony. I know you can."

"I know. I just don't _want_ to." My eyes brush across Jessup's desk again. "Hey," I point at a photo of two women, one of them is familiar. She's blonde, arm thrown around the laughing girl next to her. Darry follows my gaze. "That's the EMT who found me…"

"Yeah, that's Jessup's sister-in-law," Darry says. He clears his throat. "Lisa. We talked at the hospital," Darry explains almost defensively as I search his reddening face.

I sit back in my chair, trying not to smirk. "I hope she was good company."

"She was," Darry grunts. He crosses his arms against his chest. "She was a pretty nice girl."

Darry finally sounds the way he's supposed to: young for once, not worrying about money or his brothers. I smile, almost wanting to reach up and touch it, memorize the feeling, the motion. But it doesn't last long because the door opens and Jessup walks in. "You ready?"

I stand up on rubbery legs, hoping they wait to give way until after I ID Blonde. My knee screams a quick protest. "I'm sorry," Jessup tells Darry, who has attempted to follow us. "He's got to make the ID alone. No influences." That familiar snap in Darry's jaw makes an appearance. "I'll take him," Jessup says. "You can wait in the hall."

Darry wipes his palms on his jeans and pulls me in for a quick hug. He curls his arm around my neck. "You're gonna do fine, kid." Then he's releasing me and I'm following Jessup into the hall.

XXXXX

5:30 pm

September 22, 1967

"Ponyboy, we're going to bring in a group of men," Jessup instructs. "You just have to identify your kidnapper. They can't hear you. They can't see you."

"Simple as that," Benji puts in.

"Yeah, real simple," I mutter.

"We found 'im hittin' up the bars on the strip. Starting fights, chasing girls," Benji volunteers. Jessup gives Benji a _shut-the-hell-up_ look but Benji continues. "He was just waiting to get busted."

As Benji says this, my stomach takes another dive. It's not him and I know it. Blonde wouldn't get into any messes especially after laying low for so long. Before I can say anything, the men all march in. They line up, facing the glass, facing me. A few of them sport black eyes, busted faces they've acquired in their cells. But the Slugger and I have messed Blonde up far worse than any of them look.

"Go ahead, Ponyboy," Jessup advises but I barely hear him.

Taking a shaky breath, I step closer and place my hands on the cool glass, allowing myself a glimmer of hope. I have to make sure. If Blonde is really in there, it's done, it's all over. My eyes scan over all the faces until I see Blonde; on second thought, the one who is supposed to be Blonde. The front of his face is smashed in, the nose clearly broken. Similar features, but the eyes and the anger aren't there.

I ache inside. My hand unconsciously goes to my back pocket, wishing I had the sketch I had drawn a few nights ago to show to Jessup. But it's gone, tossed into the wind as Stanley Ezra walked away from me.

"No. He's not here." I turn away from the glass, blinking rapidly to keep my eyes from watering in disappointment.

They're shocked, faces white, jaws slack. "Are you sure?" Jessup frowns. "Maybe you should take another look." He puts a hand on my shoulder, trying to turn me toward the glass.

I jerk away from him, the sharp movement felling my knee. I reach out to grip a table for support. "Of course I'm sure." The room is suddenly too small, the air stifling. Desperate for an escape, I whip the door open. "I spent a week with him. I would know wouldn't I?"

"Ponyboy, son, we thought—"

"Stay away from me!" I yell at Jessup as he attempts to follow. My rising voice echoes through the police station. I limp down the hall in a blind daze, spots clouding my vision. My insides have been scrambled into nothing; I'm without any hope, any control I had hoped to claim with this. Nauseated, I fight against the vertigo threatening to overtake me.

Someone darts into my vision, grabbing me by the shoulders. "No!" I struggle, until I finally realize it's Soda who has me. Overcome, I utter a short gasp and my legs give out, both of us sinking down to the grimy floor. Soda keeps his arms wrapped tight around me. "It wasn't him," I say to my brother.

"Oh kiddo," Soda smoothes my hair back. He touches my sweaty forehead. "This is bullshit, Darry," he hisses to the pair of dusty work boots that has settled beside us. I want to lie down and press my cheek on the cool tile of the floor. My face is burning up.

Darry's voice is faint. "No," he growls. Another pair of shoes enters my vision. They're loafers; Jessup's. "We're done. He's been through enough. This isn't helping one goddamn thing."

"Soda," I whisper. "Can we go home now?"

"Yes. God, yes."

I begin to shake and Soda holds me.

XXXXX

3:16 pm

September 25, 1967

My key jingles in the lock. The house is quiet as Steve and I enter but I know my brothers are both home. Darry's truck sits in the driveway. Steve nods at our closed bedroom door. "He visit the land of the living yet?"

"I don't know if he'd come out of there if the house was burning down, Stevie." I toss my keys on the coffee table and miss. They hit the floor.

Pony's stayed home from school for the past three days. Any progress he's made such as sleeping, eating or talking have been washed down the drain with Blonde's reappearance and Jessup's lineup. Darry had practically spit fire when we left the police station. I've never heard him use the phrasing "son-of-a-bitch" as colorfully and as many times as he had that night.

Steve perches on the counter as I pull a loaf of bread from the fridge. He takes a can of tuna and a jar of peanut butter from the cabinet, holding both up to me. "One or the other. Not combined."

Chuckling, I reach for the peanut butter. "Don't worry, I'm not feeling that adventurous."

"Speaking of adventure," Steve begins, raising his dark eyebrows. "There's a poker tournament tomorrow night. Texas hold-em."

I raise an eyebrow of my own. "Oh yeah? Who's putting that on?"

"Tim."

"Knowing Tim the table'll be made up of cheaters and hustlers," I laugh, digging a knife in the jar of peanut butter. I pull a large swirl out and point it at Steve. "Guess we better sign up."

"I thought you might say that." Steve grins. "I already did."

Muffled but loud voices begin to float from Pony's bedroom. I freeze, the knife lingering in the air as I try to listen. Then the bedroom door slams open and Darry's deep baritone clearly resonates through the house. "I swear to god Ponyboy…don't push this."

Pony's rebuttal is lower because I can't make it out. "Really?" Darry responds. "Because don't think I won't haul you up to the hospital." There's another low retort and then Darry barks, "Watch me."

"What's going on?" I ask as Darry enters the kitchen, carrying a plate with a sandwich on it. The peanut butter can only hang on for so long, because suddenly the swirl of it falls from my knife, hitting the floor with a plop.

Darry's mouth is drawn in a tight line. "He's got a fever." His face is reminiscent of Pony's fever after Windrixville and I know he is worried.

"Christ, just what he needs." I rub a hand across my cheek and hand the knife to Steve. Steve licks the remaining peanut butter from the blade. "How'd that happen?"

"Probably stress," Darry shrugs. "He's exhausted every which way." He sets the plate in the sink. Steve helps himself to the sandwich. "And he still won't eat much of anything. I just don't know what to do anymore."

"Hell, I wish mom were here," I admit, feeling for Darry. Getting lumped with being the leader and then suddenly being helpless for once in his life must be eating at him. I've never see my brother so haggard. Even when our parents died he kept it together.

"Me too, Sodapop." Darry begins pawing through one of the junk drawers. "Do we have any aspirin in the house?"

"Knowing Ponyboy, you always have aspirin in the house," Steve quips. Finishing the sandwich, he throws the crust in the sink.

Not amused, Darry continues rifling until he finds the bottle buried at the back of the drawer. He fishes three out and recaps the bottle. Darry holds the three pills out to me. "You go. He'll talk to you."

I give him a doubtful glance. "Let's hope so."

XXXXX

3:27 pm

September 25, 1967

A glassy-eyed Ponyboy greets me. "Darry finish yelling?" He's lying in bed, the sheet twisted up around him. His face is flushed but drawn; causing his eyes to shine so green it's almost unnatural.

I give him a look. "He has good reason don't you think?" The air in the room is stagnant, reminding me of a hospital. A notebook rests beside Pony, a pencil on top of it.

"I told him, I'm not hungry," he protests, tugging the sheet up.

"Pone, honey, 'I'm not hungry' will only get you so far. You have got to eat something." I sit next to him and rest the back of my hand against his cheek. He's burning and I wince. "You're sick. Take these." I drop the three aspirin into his palm.

He sits motionless, staring at the white pills. Finally he says, "Yeah, I'm sick alright. Sick of…of all this."

I draw back, the wildness in his eyes alarming. His palm opens and closes over the aspirin. "Soda, it's never going to end, is it? Never ever." He taps his temple. "I'm always going to think about it, ain't I?"

Then, the aspirin fly across the room. My eyes widen.

"Pone," I soothe, "just calm down." Pony's words are worrying me but his fever has my attention too. I'm just now realizing Darry doesn't quite grasp how high it must be. I'm not going to get through to him this way.

His head rolls back against the pillow. "Dar!" I call out. "Bring some more aspirin." I grab Pony's bony arms, pulling him back into a sitting position. "Stay with me, kiddo."

He wrenches out of my grasp. "Dallas was right." Pony shivers. "I have to wise up. I wasn't tough; I wasn't tough enough and look what happened."

At that moment, my heart rips in two. _Damn you Dallas_, I silently swear at my old friend for filling my youngest brother with his jaded views. "You were so tough, kiddo. You fought and you came back to us. I know it's hard but, me and Darry, we're with you. You just have to talk to us—"

Pony keeps shaking his head. "I can't." If the circumstances had been different, I would have sworn he was drunk.

"Get it out of your system," I urge, simultaneously trying to use my brother's feverish state to get any information out of him and distract him at the same time as I covertly press a hand against his neck. Still hot.

"He came to the house Soda," he moans. "He came here and—"

"Pone, pretend you're anywhere else, anywhere but here."

"No. I don't want to be anywhere. Nowhere. Just like Bethlehem."

Pony grins goofily. His arms fly out and he knocks the notebook to the floor. It lands right side up and I see the sketches of Blonde. The blood drains from my face. A knife through my stomach would have been less painful. "How do you know about that?"

His look could cut ice. "I'm not stupid, Soda. I can read the paper. I know what happened. You and Darry can't always protect me."

"Well, we're damn sure gonna try." I cover my mouth, staring at him in shock. It's the fever, I know that, but at this moment my brother's lost it. And with good reason. _Jesus Christ, what a talk this is_.

Shifting listlessly, Pony's eyes flicker towards the door. Outside, Darry and Steve are talking. I hear low Darry's chuckle and then Steve's quick comeback.

"Sometimes, but not all times," Pony wags a finger at me, "sometimes I think Bethlehem had a good idea."

As the door swings open, I grab Pony up, just like I did three days ago in the police station. Since then he must have dropped five pounds because he feels like a sack of bones underneath my grip. "Stop it!" I holler. He burns in my grasp. "You can't talk like this!"

"Soda!" Darry's voice is startled.

I crane my head over my shoulder. Darry's standing in the doorway, wet washcloth in one hand, aspirin bottle in the other. Behind him, Steve has a glass of water. "Dar, he's really out of it."

Darry goes to him. Kneeling by the side of the bed, he touches Pony's face. Instantly, his hand jerks away. "Shit."

I'm still holding Pony as he giggles. "Darry, did you come to talk too?" I drop my brother back down onto his pillow. He rolls onto his side, propping his head up to stare at Darry.

Shooting me a worried look, Darry says, "Sure Pony, I came to talk. How do you feel?" He presses the wet rag against Pony's face.

"My knee hurts."

"I know that. Anything else?" Turning his head to look at Steve he says quietly, "Steve, can you start a bath? Cold water."

"Sure, Darry," Steve replies and is gone.

Ponyboy pales and he presses hand to his temple. "I'm hot." The sound of a faucet being turned on rings throughout the house.

"I know you are, kiddo," Darry says. "We'll take care of that in a few minutes." Darry's eyes flick to mine. "You ok, little buddy?"

"One helluva conversation, I'll tell you that."

He gives me a crooked grin and then we both notice that Pony's been silent for a few minutes. We turn to look.

Pony's been watching us intently, when suddenly he sags back against the pillow. His eyes flutter a few times and then stop. His head lolls off the pillow, his body going limp. Thinking he's asleep, I touch his forehead, brushing his hair back. But it doesn't brush away. Instead, it sticks like thin strands of hay, soaked with sweat. My hand jumps away, stung from the heat. "Holy shit."

Darry and I are on our feet faster than it's possible. "Steve!" I call as Darry scoops up Ponyboy in his arms. "The tub better be ready!" Pony's long arms and legs dangle about Darry like a puppet, his face white.

The bathtub is full to the brim with cool water. Darry hesitates a mere second and then slowly eases Ponyboy's body into the water. It sinks like a stone and I plunge my arms into the cold liquid, holding Pony's chin above surface. In the background, I can hear Steve on the phone with the hospital, his voice reaching shouting octaves.

Gently, Darry pats Ponyboy's wan face. "Wake up, c'mon Pony." I squeeze my eyes shut, praying for Pony's fever to break before he does.

XXXXXX

The calm before the storm, so to speak.

;)


	11. Chapter 11

XXXXX

Going to leave this brokedown palace,  
On my hand and knees, I will roll, roll, roll.  
Make myself a bed in the waterside,  
In my time, I will roll, roll roll.

In a bed, in a bed, by the waterside I will lay my head.  
Listen to the river sing sweet songs, to rock my soul.

--The Grateful Dead

XXXXX

3:48 pm

September 25, 1967

Blonde almost shits himself as a cop car and an ambulance pull up to Ponyboy Curtis's house. Certain that his day is up, he begins swearing up a storm and preparing his defense. Then, instead of slapping on cuffs, the cops and EMT's run in with a medic kit and Blonde almost allows himself to hope that, by some miraculous twist of fate, his job has been done for him.

15 minutes later, they all exit the house. The EMT's and cops are followed by the dark haired boy who works with one of the kid's brothers. He shakes their hands, saying thanks, and the cops and the medics are gone, giving Blonde room to breathe.

Blonde scrubs an angry hand down the front of his face, feeling his distorted nose, the loss of his two front teeth. He thinks back to a few days ago when he nearly had Ponyboy and anger courses through his body. His hands curl around the steering wheel as he starts the engine and pulls the car away from the curb. Nobody gets the drop on him. Not Hannah, not Sammy, and especially not some shitty little kid with a baseball bat and a limp.

As Blonde drives back to his motel room, he decides he is glad Ponyboy has survived today. Because the next time they meet up, the kid won't be so lucky.

XXXXX

4:12 am

September 26, 1967

When he wakes up, he's shivering all over.

From the doorframe, I shoot a quick glance at Darry who's sprawled out on the sofa, drinking coffee, his gaze fixated on space instead of the droning TV. Quietly, I shut the bedroom door and go to Ponyboy.

Bending down, I touch his slightly cooler forehead, relieved at the drop in temperature. He's nowhere near as hot as he was, but the paramedics have warned if it spikes again, he needs to go to the hospital. Darry and I have been taking turns checking on him every 30 minutes.

I set the meds from the pharmacy and the glass of water on his nightstand. I turn the bedside light on. Pony winces at the soft glow it casts around the room. "Hey," I whisper.

Confused, Pony blinks. "Soda?" He groans, twisting beneath the sheets.

"Yeah, I'm here. How are you feelin'?"

"Why aren't you at work?"

"Well, hell kiddo, 4:00 in the morning ain't the best time to put a carburetor together." I give him a smile.

Pony yawns. His eyes close once and then open again. He has mom's eyes; soft, thoughtful, green. The feverishness of a few hours ago has left them, they're no longer wild. He yawns again. "Where's Darry?"

I sit on the side of the bed and it creaks. "On the couch. Watching some ridiculous cartoon."

"Liar." Pony smiles. "Darry hates cartoons." That's the truth all right, except Darry needs something mind-numbing to replace the events that have happened earlier in the afternoon.

"How do you feel?" I scrutinize my brother closely. He's pale, deep bruises hovering around his eyes. I feel like a shit; I don't know how Darry or I could have missed how deep he was sinking.

"Tired." He fiddles with the edge of the sheet and then stretches out an arm to check the time on the bedside clock. "Guess I'm sick again, huh?" Ponyboy's voice carries an edge of defeat.

"Doc says you're stressed." I stifle a yawn of my own. Trying to regurgitate medical jargon at four in the morning isn't something I'm good at; it makes me remember why I dropped out of school. "Your system is out of whack and you had a fever. Still do, just not as bad." I grab the glass of water from his nightstand, raising it in a toast. "It's liquids from now on, Pone."

"Lucky me." Ponyboy rolls his eyes. He frowns and I can see his brain working around the events of the last few days. He swallows a lump in his throat, lying very still.

"Hey," I say, trying to get his attention. "Kiddo, you can talk to me and Darry, you know that." I have to say this because I don't think he believes it.

Pony's eyes flash and he focuses on the ceiling. My eyes drift upward seeing the thin crack that has formed throughout the years and a pencil that Two-Bit has stuck in the wood above which will one day release its hold on the ceiling and probably end up impaling myself or Ponyboy.

My eyes drift back down again and settle on my silent brother. I can see it in his face; he wants to spill it. But instead of saying anything he takes a deep breath and sighs. "Yeah, I know."

I give him a doubtful look but relent for now. "You want some water, kiddo?"

"I'm not thirsty."

"Damn it, Ponyboy. You fixin' on starving yourself, ain't gonna happen."

I slam the water glass down. It smacks the nightstand causing a few drops of water to splash out. He looks at me, taken aback. "You ain't stupid, so don't act like you are."

XXXXX

9:39 am

September 26, 1967

I catch the phone up on the first ring. " 'lo?" I ask in a tone that Ponyboy would catch a scolding for.

"Darry?" says a familiar, hesitant voice. "It's Lisa. Lisa Paillard?"

I rub my forehead. "Yeah, I know who this is." Distracted, I watch Soda exit Pony's room, closing the door softly behind him. He watches me for a moment, waiting for me to let him know if the person on the phone is someone he should be concerned about. I shake my head. Nodding, Soda mouths _he's asleep_ and then enters the bathroom. The shower begins running.

"I heard about your brother." Lisa's voice brings me back to the present.

"I'm sure you did."

"Jessup didn't tell me." She sounds offended. There's a pause and then she says, "I heard it on my police scanner."

I smile in spite of my irritation. "You have a police scanner?"

Lisa laughs. "Yeah, it comes in pretty handy, although, sometimes you'd be surprised at what you hear." Her laugh fades. "How's he doing?"

"He's…he's been better…" I had been about to say _fine_ but then realized Lisa would call me on it.

"I don't know how you do it," she muses. "You sure do have your hands full."

"I wouldn't have it any other way." The right side of my jaw tenses, thinking about either of my brothers stuck in a boy's home. Despite the times the make me worry and angry and frustrated as hell I wouldn't change it for the world.

"That's – that's not what I meant," she rushes on. "I just meant that, well you have a lot to worry about. And you handle it. You just do."

Soda exits the bathroom, dressed and shaved. He raises an eyebrow at me and then grins. I grin back. "Yeah," I tell Lisa. "I do."

"Darry, if you need help with anything, you call me." Then she's giving me her phone number and as I'm taking it down, Two-Bit swerves his busted old truck into the driveway, ready to get the morning started.

XXXXX

5:12 pm

September 26, 1967

The page is blank. Empty. It kind of looks the way I feel.

I flip the page on my notebook and unintentionally see Blonde's skewed sketch from the other night. "Boy howdy," I murmur. I had been really out of it; even Two-Bit could have drawn a better profile. Angrily, I toss the notebook to the floor, face down.

Suddenly, my palms begin to sweat and so does my throat. I know that all too familiar feeling and scramble up from the bed. I get tangled in my sheets and fall with a smack to the floor. Jumping up again, I barely make it to the garbage can before I vomit up my stomach.

I don't have much left to give, but at least I give it my all.

I sit down on the floor with a sigh, resting my back against the bed. For the past 24 hours I have felt it down in my chest, that twitching pain telling me to spill it. In fact, I want to cry to someone, to scream at someone what I've been keeping locked away for the past month. Hell, I might event start blabbing to Johnny soon.

But just when I get the nerve to tell my brothers, a voice in my head shouts to me that somewhere along the way I gave up back in that cabin, I failed. Then I think about the line-up and how it wasn't Blonde and that's the final straw. I don't know how to talk.

Because the way I see it, it won't be over until he's caught. He came to the house. He took me away from what I knew. This home isn't home anymore and I sure ain't me anymore.

"You just can't stop being a pain in the ass can ya, kid?"

My head rolls sideways to see Steve Randle lounging in the doorway. "Funny, I was gonna say the same thing about you."

Steve smirks. He wrinkles his nose as he steps inside the room. "It smells like shit in here."

"I puked." I shrug, propping my arms behind me, giving myself a push off the ground. Steve grabs my elbow, helping me stand steadily. I sit on the edge of the bed as Steve settles himself in the chair Soda had occupied last night. I rub my eyes. "What do you want, Steve?" I don't particularly have the patience to argue with him right now.

"I need help with my homework." He raises an eyebrow. "You gonna puke anymore?"

"No," I say in a low voice. "I don't think so." I appraise him, taking in his disheveled hair and fierce expression. "What do you really want, Steve?"

"Let's play some cards, Pony."

I blink as Steve pulls a card deck from his back pocket and begins shuffling. His hands are still covered in car grease. They leave black marks on the cards as he shuffles them deftly. If we would have been better friends I would have asked him to show me how he does it. When I try to shuffle, I end up flinging cards everywhere. I can shuffle, I'm just clumsy.

I stare at him, at his hands. "Don't you and Soda have a poker game tonight?"

"Well we did," Steve says, cutting the deck. "But Soda wasn't about to leave you, so I told him to go and I'd sit here with you."

"Darry's here." I shift uncomfortably, drawing my knees up to my chest. "You ain't gotta be here." I hear Darry puttering around in the kitchen, talking to Two-Bit who's been here ever since this morning.

Steve's silent as lays the deck down. I cut it and then he begins dealing our hands. Two cards to him, two to me. He waits for me to evaluate my hand. I have a jack and queen of diamonds. After we both check, he lays down the flop: a king of diamonds, two of hearts and a two of spades.

I check and he raises me. I fold and begin re-shuffling the deck. I can feel Steve's gaze on me and I keep my eyes on the cards. "Darry tells me you're going to have to repeat the semester."

I mentally curse Steve and his tact. "Yeah," I say, holding the deck out to him. He cuts. "I've missed too much school now. I couldn't even finish up the semester with C's." Darry had told me the news this afternoon after meeting with the principal. Darry kept an impassive face and even tone, but if I knew my brother he was probably taking it harder than I was. I couldn't give a hang.

I deal our hands. "I'll take summer school to make up for the year. That way I won't be behind. Not that it matters."

Stony-faced, Steve asks, "You gonna follow in Soda's footsteps? Drop out next year, get a job?"

"Think the DX is hiring?" I slump back against the pillow and reposition my throbbing knee.

"Smart ass," Steve swears, finally examining his hand. "I wouldn't trust you to change my tires, let alone my oil." I ignore this.

I have two sevens. The flop reveals two queens and a two of clubs. I call Steve's raise and lay another card down. A three of hearts. Another raise and another call. I flip the river card down: five of diamonds.

Steve and I show our hands. He has the remaining two queens. He raises an eyebrow at my pair of sevens. "What did Soda and I tell you, kid? You never bet with a pair unless it's nines or larger."

The game continues like this for five more hands. Just when I think I have a good hand, I get the shit cards or Steve's card flops on the river. Steve deals another round while shaking his head. _Slap, slap, slap_. He lays down the flop.

A queen of clubs, jack of clubs and an ace of diamonds. I have a pair of tens. I raise and he re-raises. I call him and Steve lays down another card. It's a ten of clubs. Indifferent, I raise and Steve suddenly goes all in. He lays the last card down – a two of hearts

"You're playing like shit," he snarls, seeing my hand.

I shrug, uncaring. "Sometimes the cards aren't worth it, Steve."

Steve flips his hand over. He has a king and an ace of clubs. A royal flush. "Sometimes they are, kid."

XXXXX

7:45 pm

September 28, 1967

I come home two hours late after grabbing a drink with a few guys from work, only to find the house empty. Soda's closing the DX so that leaves me to wonder where my youngest brother is.

Five minutes later, the screen door slams open. "Pone?" I call from my bedroom.

"Yeah."

I change from my work shirt into a faded gray t-shirt and jeans. I find Ponyboy in the living room, breathing heavily, a light sheen of sweat on his forehead. "Hey. Where've you been?"

"Nowhere," he pants. Pony's leaning against the doorframe, his right arm propped out, his hand nearly digging into the wood. He winces as he turns toward me and that's all I need to know.

"You went running didn't you?" I'm mad enough to spit fire. I want to yell at him for going out alone, for going out while he's still sick and for doing something so stupid. "Damn it, Ponyboy. You're to stay off that knee. I'm not gonna tell you again."

Pony doesn't scowl at me. He just looks at me in shock, his face working furiously to conceal something I haven't seen before. I take a step forward. "Pony, what's wrong?"

Bewildered, he shakes his head. "Darry…I don't think I can run again. I got out to the track and I thought I could. But then…it hurts too much. I can't."

I put a hand on his shoulder and I can feel him shaking. "Get in the kitchen and ice your knee." He limps past me and I follow him.

"What're you doing?" I ask as he pulls a frying pan from the cupboard.

"It's my night for dinner," he mumbles. I take in his appearance, his long, lanky limbs and pale complexion. Ponyboy opens the pantry, staring at the cans and jars in front of him expressionless.

"Don't worry about that." I pull out a chair. "Sit down; I'll get you some ice." I open the freezer, plopping ice cubes into a towel. Ponyboy stays frozen near the counter.

"Darry." His voice is lost and I turn around. "What am I gonna do? I can't run. I can't do anything right."

I set the ice in the sink. "Pony…"

He hobbles over to the closet, tearing off his sneakers. Pony whips the closet door open and throws his sneakers into the mess of Soda's work boots and winter coats. As he's about to shut the door, Pony sees something he shouldn't. It's his jacket – the one I took back from Stanley Ezra.

"Oh, what the hell, Darry?" Pony rips it from the hanger. He tosses it to the ground. Ponyboy's hands begin shaking.

"Ponyboy, you gotta talk to me kiddo." I approach him slowly. The accusation in his eyes so clear it's painful. He's looked at me like that before; the night he took off for Windrixville, after I had hit him.

"I can't."

"Yes, you can."

His eyes are ticking like a metronome, darting around the room. He glances down at his hands as if they're a foreign object. "No." I grab his hands. "Don't look away. Don't look at your hands. Look at me. It's just us, Pony. I know sometimes it doesn't seem like it, but you can tell me anything."

Pony's mouth opens and closes but nothing comes out. I keep a firm grip on him, holding him in place. Then what I've been afraid of happens: Ponyboy cracks.

His face crumples and Ponyboy lets out a low wail, falling to his hands and knees on the floor, his whole body wracking. I fall beside him. My hands come out, one rubbing his back, the other gripping and pressing his shoulder back, so he can't collapse. I will myself to stay strong as my brother finally purges himself of what he's been holding in for so long.

"I thought I was gonna die there, Darry," Ponyboy sobs. "I was so scared I'd never see you or Soda again." The grief escapes him, tumbling out like a dark downpour. "I tried to fight but I gave up."

I find my voice. "You made it out of there. I know you Ponyboy and I know you'd never give up." I rub his back, feeling his bony spine beneath the skin.

"But I did," he moans. "I couldn't do anything, they doped me. They hit me." Darkness crosses my vision, reaffirming what I already know. If Blonde tries to touch my brother again, the last thing he'll see is me standing over him while he finishes dying.

"And I talked to you and Johnny and Dallas but none of it was real." Pony wipes at his face. "I was so goddamned stoned I was hallucinating. I kept thinking about all my 'last' times." He shakes his head. "I should've taken that ride from Two-Bit."

"Pone, you can't blame yourself for that."

He begins to cry again. "I can't take this house anymore. Blonde came here and he's all I see. Not mom or dad. Just him." He takes a breath. "I thought they'd leave me in that basement and no one would ever find me. I'd die there. And no one would know."

"I knew," I say. "Ponyboy, I knew without a doubt you were still alive and that we'd find you. Soda and I never gave up. We never will."

Then Pony's squeezing his eyes shut and wrapping his long arms around my waist. I pull him in tight and I don't let the kid go until Soda comes home from work to find us sitting there.

XXXXX

Please review. I hope this is not dragging…I have a few more chapters to go. Thanks! Pardon typos.


	12. Chapter 12

SO SUDDENLY THE MADNESS CAME

WITH IT'S WHISKERED, WOLVEN, ETHER PANGS  
HE LOCKED THE DOOR  
AND HE SHUT THE BLINDS  
HE LAID DOWN ON THE FLOOR AND HE SLEPT LIKE IRON  
WHILE THE DIRTY KNIFE WORKED DEEP  
INTO HIS SPINE  
THE BLOOD RUNS CRAZY  
THE BLOOD RUNS CRAZY

--Neko Case

XXXXX

10:15 pm

September 28, 1967

"You cheated, didn't you?"

"I didn't say that, did I?"

"Sodapop, if I know you, the least you did was cheat. Especially, in the company of Tim and with a few beers under your belt, it's a miracle you won the game."

My laugh turns into a hiccup as Darry follows me into the bedroom. "Don't say I never did anything to you," I whisper, laying my poker money on Ponyboy's desk. Darry's gaze drifts to Ponyboy, asleep in bed. I sigh at sit down at the desk.

Returning home from the game to find Darry holding a sobbing Ponyboy sobered me up pretty quick. "Dar…" was I could say, standing above them, slack-jawed, thinking the worst.

Darry kept his eyes on Ponyboy. "Soda," he said, brushing Ponyboy's hair back, "He spilled it. He spilled it all."

Ponyboy had wriggled out from Darry's arms, his eyes pink. "Hey Sodapop," he said. "You missed the show." It was like entering another house. Its tenseness was gone replaced by a strange feeling of relief.

I sigh again. "You think he's ok?"

Darry gives a smile. "I think so," he says, his voice solid. "I think he will be soon."

XXXXX

1:49 am

September 29, 1967

I remove myself from Soda's embrace, slinking out of the bed. My bare feet hit the ground and I pad across the room, into the hall and make it to the bathroom. I pop two aspirin, washing them down with two glasses of water. I'm exhausted but also relieved. It's as if my entire soul has come back down into my body, completing me.

Darry was right. He and Sodapop haven't given up on me and I won't give up on myself. I have a long way to go until I feel whole again, but this time, I don't think I'm grasping at straws.

I lift my head and face my reflection in the mirror.

XXXXX

3:10 pm

September 29, 1967

I go back to school since there's nothing for me to do at home. It's a long shot – one I can tell even Darry doubts – but I may as well try to avoid summer school if I can help it. Two-Bit passes me at my locker. He's chatting up some young blonde, but pauses long enough to say, "Meet me outside? I'll take ya home."

I juggle my history and English textbooks against my hip. "Sure, give me a few minutes."

He smirks and puts an arm around the girl. "Take your time." Two-Bit whisks her down the hall, saying, "You see it's no mistake I've been in school this long. As an undercover officer…"

I dig around in the locker for my geography book. Blindly, I reach my hand on the top shelf, feeling for it. My hand touches a thin piece of paper and I pull it down. It's a photo of us – of the gang. I remember I had brought it in one morning, meaning to give it to Johnny but had forgotten all about it.

Smiling, I place the photo in my English textbook. Giving up on geography, I slam the locker shut and turn smack dab into Stanley Ezra. He's wearing a dark madras shirt and a weak smile. In his left hand he clutches something rolled up. It looks like paper. "You need a ride?"

"Don't bother. I got a ride."

He follows me down the hall. "Look, Curtis. I just…I just—"

"What?" I turn around to face him, feeling my face get hot. "What do you want to talk to me about? I ain't got time for this."

Stan glances around guiltily. "I heard you were sick."

I start walking again. "Guess news gets around." I reach the glass doors and shove them open, stepping into the midday sun. I wince at its harshness and my knee gives a twinge mocking the thirty or so stairs I have to descend to reach the sidewalk. "Just leave me alone ok?"

He grabs my arm when we make it to the bottom of the steps. "Curtis, you were right. I know that face." Stan unfurls the paper he has in his left hand. It's the sketch I had thrown away.

I take a step backwards, reeling like a drunk. "Wait, what?" I can practically feel my heart tightening in my chest. "You told me you—"

"I know and I'm sorry," Stan says.

"So who is it?"

"I don't know."

Confused, I hold a hand out in a _stop_ motion. "But I thought you said…" This doesn't make any sense to me and suddenly I feel very weak, like my tether's going to snap.

Stan moves closer. "I _know_ the face. But I don't know where I know it _from_. You dig?" He searches for the right words, pulling out a pack of cigarettes. "You know how you can know a face but can't place it? Like a movie star or something in a dream? That's how this is."

His face falls. "My mom's involved with this. Somehow, I just know it."

Without asking I grab a smoke from Stan and light up. I figure I'm entitled to this by now. I start puffing away like it's nobody's business. Stan watches me, his forehead creased. My heart beating fast, I pull him aside, underneath a large oak tree. "Stan…what makes you think your mom's got anything to do with this?"

This is news to me and I wonder what else I don't know.

Stan opens his mouth and abruptly shuts it. His eyes focus on something over my shoulder. I turn to see Two-Bit rounding the corner, Steve trailing. I leave the cigarette stuck in my mouth, letting the smoke swirl around me like a halo.

"What's the hold up, Pony?" Two-Bit asks, approaching. "We were waitin' on you."

"You told me take my time, Two-Bit." I eye Steve. "You ditch the blonde for him?"

Two-Bit's smile is uneasy. "That's not what I meant kid and you know it." He throws Stanley a look that's a bit harsh even for Two-Bit's standards. "Why are you always hanging around him? You got him in enough trouble already."

"Two-Bit…" I warn.

Defensive, Stan draws himself up. To Stan, I'm Curtis, an ex-track buddy. But Two-Bit's a greaser and talking that way to a Soc is something Stan won't tolerate. "I was just talking to him, no crime in that." And then Stan says the magic words. "'Sides, it's not any of your business, _Keith_."

I almost want to plant my face in my palm. Two-Bit bristles and Stan shoots him a smirk.

Steve jumps in. "You're a goddamn idiot if you think this ain't our business. You got this kid in some shit and you're not gonna start anything else."

Stan's jaw tenses. "Cut it out," I snap at Steve. I give Stan a look. "I'll see you around."

"Keep 'em." Stan shoves his pack of smokes into my outstretched hands, nodding at Two-Bit and Steve. "You need 'em more than I do." He leaves the three of us standing there.

"You two are assholes." I push past Steve, walking quickly towards Two-Bit's idling truck. My hands shake as I light up again.

Within me, the need to know begins to ache.

XXXXX

4:49 pm

September 29, 1967

I find Stanley's number in the phone book. As it rings, I've already planned my story in case his mom picks up. Luckily, she doesn't. "Hello?" Stanley asks.

"Stan…it's Ponyboy."

"Your friends have a perpetual screw loose or what?"

"They were dropped as children," I explain, twisting the phone cord around me to peer into the living room. Two-Bit's watching the Three Stooges while Steve's gone to pick up Sodapop. "Many times."

I hear the smile in Stan's voice. "Let's hope so." He coughs and then there's the faint sound of a door closing. "We gotta talk. I haven't told you everything."

"I know," I say rubbing my knee. There's a weak thought turning itself around in my head that I can't quite unscramble.

"How about Jim's Diner? Meet you there in about 20?"

"Yeah." I say and hang up. I glance at Two-Bit and the front door, realizing there's no way he's going to let me out alone. Annoyed, I walk back into my bedroom and briefly consider climbing out my window.

Then I spy the deck of cards Steve has left on my nightstand. Grabbing them up, I duck back into the hallway. Clumsily, I aim the pack of cards at Two-Bit's beer can sitting on the kitchen table. Praying that the deck finds its target, I hurl the cards at the beer and wait for it.

The can hits the tile and there's a _whoosh_ as the beer begins spraying out like water from a fire hose. "What the hell?" Two-Bit exclaims. Distracted, he scrambles up, grabbing a dish rag.

Unseen, I slink behind Darry's recliner and slip out the front door. I feel bad throwing Two-Bit under the bus, but I'm doing my friend a favor. What he doesn't know, Darry can't beat out of him.

XXXXX

4:56 pm

September 29, 1967

Blonde ain't stupid. He knows a cop when he sees one. 20 feet away from him, Hannah sits in her fancy car that her schmuck husband has bought her, looking around like someone's going to sneak up behind her and say "boo!". She's waiting on him; only he's not gonna show because he can see the other car.

He can't make out the man in the vehicle but Blonde figures he sure as shit better have a little fun with this cat and mouse game they got going on.

Blonde puts the stolen Chevy in gear and pulls out of the alley way.

XXXXX

4:59 pm

September 29, 1967

"Kid's leaving his house," Benji radios.

"Follow him. I've got a watch on Hannah," I tell my partner. "She's waiting for someone." I hear Benji start his engine.

From my vantage point, parked across from the drug store, Hannah Ezra's sitting in her car. She checks her watch and fiddles with her wedding ring.

I lower my binoculars. "Benji, I don't think he's gonna show."

XXXXX

5:10 pm

September 29, 1967

"Shit," Benji swears. "You're not gonna believe this."

I pick up my radio. "What?"

"Guess who the Ezra kid's buddying around with?" Benji's voice is tinny over the crackling static. "Ponyboy Curtis."

"Shit." The last thing we need is Ponyboy getting messed up with the Ezra family. The kid's been through enough mud without getting dragged into it any deeper. "What're they up to?"

"They stopped into Jim's Diner."

"Keep an eye on them," I say, starting up my car. "I'm heading back to the station, do some thinking."

"Roger," Benji says, signing off.

I don't like the way things are shaking out. It reeks of a clusterfuck; too many characters and I can't tell what parts they're playing. Ponyboy's a distraction, Stan Ezra isn't talking and Hannah with her twitchy nervousness gives me ammunition but no gun.

I have to rein in the kid. I can't do anything about who Ponyboy hangs around with. But I know someone who can.

XXXXX

5:11 pm

September 29, 1967

Stan and I both order Cokes. I don't drink it, instead choosing to light another smoke.

"You're gonna bust a lung smoking that hard, Curtis," Stan tells me as I slump in the booth, checking out the place.

Jim's Diner is more of a dump than a diner; cigarette smoke hangs in the air like a thick fog, and the people who are crowding the booths and eating at the counter look like recently paroled convicts.

Stan unrolls my sketch and flattens it on the sticky table. "Would you knock that off?" I snap, unnerved. "What is it with you and that?"

"Sorry." Looking embarrassed, Stan folds the piece of paper up and sticks it in his pocket. "I'm trying to remember. I figure the more I stare at it, the sooner it will hit." He pounds the table with his fist. "I _know_ this face."

I lean toward him. "Stan, why do you think your mom involved in this? Maybe you're wrong and—"

"No. I hear her talking to someone on the phone and when I come in she hangs up." Stan chews on his lip. "She's leaving a lot during the day but she doesn't tell me where she's going. The last time the cops questioned her she freaked. I could tell. So could the Detective."

I clutch my cigarette like a life-preserver. "I _thought_ Jessup knew something."

"The funny thing is," Stan says, "is I think so too. I just don't think they can do anything without the evidence." He takes a sip of his drink and looks around nervously.

Disgruntled, I ash my smoke. "You've been reading too many Hardy Boy mysteries." The pain I see in Stan's face makes me regret my comment. I lower my voice. "You really think you know him?" And for just a moment, I allow myself to hope.

"I do." Stan sighs. "I'm sorry about before…about saying you were losing it. I just don't know what to do. I mean, she's my mom you know?"

Stan continues. "Yeah, I may be a shit for ratting out my own mom. But I think she's got herself caught up in something. I figure I need to tell someone before she digs herself in too deep. Before it's too late."

Stan's got guts, I'll give him that. I try and imagine finding Sodapop or Darry in a situation like this and know I'd never have the stomach to give up either of my brothers.

"What about your dad?"

"He moved out. He wouldn't believe me anyways."

I light another cigarette, fumbling with the lighter. The pack's finished. I've smoked 20 cigarettes in two hours. My throat screams its protest but I ignore it.

"I figure you should know at least since this guy's still out there, looking to get you."

"Thanks for the reminder."

Stan raises his hands. "Hey, I'm just being realistic, Curtis. He already came back once for you." He grins. "Although, from what I hear, you oughta try out for the baseball team instead of track."

I shake my head, smiling in spite of the situation. "Wouldn't work. I'd still have to run for the bases." Then I think: _If Blonde comes back I wouldn't have a chance. I couldn't run._

_If…If…If…When. _

_When _I_ make it happen. _The thought strikes me so quickly that I sit back in the squeaky booth. Unconsciously, I put the cigarette to my lips.

"Curtis?" Stan sounds worried.

My voice comes out foggy and distant. "So you think your mom knows this guy?"

"I said that before didn't I?"

It's at this second that I finally come back home. I'm still afraid, still scarred, but I take back control. There's a way to end this, to make Blonde play on our turf. It's a stupid and foolish idea, but I'm just desperate enough to try it.

Exhilarated, a slow smile spreads across my face. "We could set it up."

Stan frowns. "What the hell you talking about?"

"Set it up so that Blonde comes back for me when the cops are watching." I watch Stan's face. He blinks once and then chews his lip.

"You mean like bait?" Stan shifts and I hear the rustle of paper as he fingers the sketch underneath the table.

"You said it, I didn't." I glance out the window. The wind's whipping the trees around, leaves and loose papers swirling on the sidewalk like a cyclone.

Stan laughs. "Curtis, you know what? I take back what I said. You _are_ losing it." When he speaks next his eyes are bright. "But it goddamn well might work."

XXXXX

Review please.

Pardon typos, random mutterings and unexplained phenomenon.

;)


	13. Chapter 13

Sorry for the wait. I had brain drain and couldn't write. Here's a long chapter to make up for it. After this, only one more to go.

Pardon any typos.

Please review. Reading + reviewing = updating. Haha. Just kidding. No seriously.

Also, special thanks to Calla Lilly Rose for the sudden inspiration…she'll recognize it in this chapter.

Warnings: Foul language as only Steve can do, yelling from Darry and random jokes a la Two-Bit. Plus, Soda makes an appearance or two.

Disclaimers: SE Hinton owns this wonderful book and characters. I own a cop, a kidnapper and a boy with a sweet automobile.

Enjoy!

XXXXXX

6:20 pm

September 29, 1967

Stan drops me off a block away from my house. He drove his father's cherry red Porsche to the diner. If my brother's see it parked in front of the house, they'll definitely know what I've been to the wrong side of the tracks.

Before I go, Stan pulls the sketch out of his pocket. "Hold on a minute." He draws a dialogue bubble above Blonde's mouth and within it scribbles: _Come and get me, Ponyboy._

I give him a wry look as he hands me the sketch. "Keep it," he says.

I take it. For incentive.

Climbing out of the car, I jam the paper in the pocket of my jeans. "Don't do anything stupid…" Stan says, and I slam the passenger side door shut on his, "…without me."

Even before I see Darry's truck in the driveway and the house lit up like the fourth of July, I know I'm going to catch hell. I climb the porch in one step and swing the door open.

Darry's waiting for me. He stops mid-pace. "Pony, you have some explaining to do."

He sniffs the air. "My god, you smell like a chimney." I bite my lip, thinking of the empty cigarette pack left on the table at Jim's Diner.

Behind him, Two-Bit sits in the recliner, arms crossed. The faint aroma of chicken and potatoes lingers in the room. Soda pokes his head out of the kitchen, waving a spatula at me. "What's with the disappearing act, kiddo?"

"I'm sorry." I take a step inside, wiggling around the boulder that is Darry. I back myself up against the wall, rubbing my knee. "I had to go out for a second. I'm sorry," I say again looking at Two-Bit.

"You wasted a perfectly good beer, Pony," Two-Bit admonishes. But a glimmer of a smile lurks beneath his stern demeanor.

"So, where were you?" Darry takes a step toward me, his back facing Two-Bit. I shove my hands in the pockets of my jeans, feeling the faded sketch of Blonde that Stan had given back to me.

"Out."

"Where?"

"Jim's Diner."

"You were gone a while."

"Sure was."

"With who?"

I hesitate. My eyes flicker to Two-Bit who is dragging a hand across his throat in a chopping motion. _Cut it_ it says. Darry knows. Which is why he's home early and why I'd better give it up. I choose my words carefully. And truthfully.

"Stan Ezra."

Darry smiles, a bit smug that I've caved this easily.

Then, curiosity gets the best of me and I ask, "How'd you find out anyways?"

"Jessup called me at work. He put a tail on Stan and thought he'd let me know you two were meeting up." I frown and Darry lets out something that's a mixture of sigh and a laugh. "Well, can you blame him? Pony, you snuck out without telling anyone."

"Caught you red handed," Two-Bit chuckles, lounging back in the recliner.

I roll my eyes toward the ceiling. "I'm glad I spilled your beer." Two-Bit grips his heart in mock agony and makes a choking noise.

Soda, forgetting about dinner, joins us in the living room, wiping his hands on a dishrag. A few clumps of mashed potatoes linger in his hair. Distracted, Darry gestures at Sodapop's disheveled hair. "What happened? You get into a fight in there?"

Soda gives Darry a crooked grin and then turns to me. "Why're you hanging around with that kid?"

"No real reason." I shrug, uncomfortable. There's only one thing we have in common and it doesn't sit well for all parties involved. "We were just talking."

Darry searches my face. "I don't want you hanging around with him. You're just gonna get more involved than you should."

"Is that what Jessup said?"

Darry's blue eyes narrow. "It's what I say. You got that?"

"Sure, Darry. No problem."

Darry speaks up again, his voice a warning. "Ponyboy, you listen to me. Stay away from that kid. I mean it."

Soda, quiet for most of the conversation, flicks the dishrag at me. It snaps my arm. "Go wash up for dinner, kiddo."

XXXXX

3:16 pm

September 30, 1967

"If that goddamned son-of-a-bitch doesn't pay up this time…" Steve's complaint reverberates through the gas station. "…I swear to God, I'm personally gonna rip this antenna off, ram it up his ass and then make him eat all that damn blow he's been selling to those whores—"

Soda's eyes widen as Two-Bit and I enter the DX. Judging from my brother's face the discussion isn't about to get any better. "Oh hey!" he says, his voice loud and exaggerated. "Steve, will you look who's here? Ponyboy and Two-Bit." Soda has a streak of car grease smeared down his neck, his nails black.

Steve's on his back, slid underneath a Corvette on a low dolly. He grumbles once and then slides out. Annoyed that his verbal tirade can't continue, Steve shoots me a dirty look. He raises an eyebrow, lays his wrench down and tells me, "And you were about to hear the good part."

"Lucky me."

"Nice, Steve," Two-Bit says, clapping me on the back. "You kiss your mother with that mouth?"

Steve sits up, tugging off his protection goggles. They leave red rings around his eyes. "No, but I'm happy to say I kiss _your_ mother with this mouth."

Two-Bit swaggers up, sticking his foot on the dolly Steve's sitting on. He gives it a nudge and Steve wobbles. "Better yet," Two-Bit drawls, "you can kiss my ass."

A smile snakes its way across Steve's mouth. "How about you kiss my hairy—"

Soda jumps in again. "I hate to break up this love fest but I really don't feel like I need to be on a need to know basis with who's kissing who." Soda scowls at Steve. "Or who's kissing what."

He turns to me. "How was class, kiddo?"

I shrug. "Still failing."

Soda smiles sympathetically. "You'll go to summer school, like Darry said. Don't worry."

Out of the corner of my eye Two-Bit makes a move. Before I can duck out of the way, he has me in a headlock, rubbing my hair. "Taking after old Two-Bit are you? Bound to be a repeat offender?"

Wriggling out of his grasp, I stumble back into the front counter. "Not if I can help it, Greaser." Two-Bit laughs.

My hands twitch to my pockets. Soda juts his chin at me. "You missin' your smokes?"

Steve snorts. "Darry finally confiscate them weeds of yours?"

I roll my eyes but nod. Earlier this morning Darry had taken all the smokes he could find and pretty much told me "no more" until I was feeling better. I must look pretty pathetic because Steve hands me a dollar. I blink at the gesture and eye him with distrust. "What's this for?"

"There's a vending machine out back," he says. "Smoke your heart out."

Soda's arguing with Steve as I book it out of there. "Now why'd you go and do that?" he snaps. Two-Bit's laughter follows me outside. There's a vending machine out back, sandwiched between a trashcan and a pile of spare tires. I feed the dollar in the machine and get my change. A pack of Lucky's is in my hands before I know it. I rip them open and light one up.

I take a hard drag. This gets me coughing and I'm doubled over trying to muffle the noise so Soda doesn't hear. I straighten up and glance down the alleyway. The smell of gasoline and rubber wafts on the light breeze the wind carries.

That's when I see him. Blonde.

The Chevy rounds the corner, comes down the alleyway and the driver shoots me a knowing grin. Then he's gone, taking a hard right on Michigan Street.

Stunned, I freeze. _The license plate number_. I roll the numbers I've seen around in my head, memorizing them. Tulsa Plates, 123LKO. "One-two-three, l-k-oh," I mumble. "One-two-three, l-k-oh."

_He's following me. He's waiting_. And instead of being afraid, I'm angry. Hell, I'm ready. My hands begin to tremble. I drop my cigarette. _Damn it, damn it, damn it…_

"Shit," I hiss, knowing my plan's going down the drain. I was an idiot to think Blonde would ever show his face with the cops hanging around. And here I am, out in an alleyway alone, just giving Blonde his chance.

Currents of anger and frustration fill my body. I take off down the street, hollering: "Sodapop!" I run to the corner, stop in the middle of the road and stare. There's nothing, only a few leaves blowing across the road. But I know I wasn't dreaming.

Soda's voice carries on the wind. Spinning around, the three of them are standing outside the DX. Soda shouts something again and I jog back to them. "What happened?" Soda's shaking me. "Pony, what's goin' on?"

"I saw him." I point at the road and try to turn around at the same time. This causes me to trip over my own feet; I wince as my knee throbs. Soda grabs my elbow.

"Who?"

"He was just here. He drove by."

They give me dumbfounded looks. "Sodapop, he drove by. _Right there_." I point again.

Frustration creases Soda's face. "Ponyboy, for God's sake, _who_?"

I feel my face turn red; that information might be useful. Otherwise, I'm sure I look half-crazed right now. "Blonde."

Soda doesn't doubt me or ask any more questions. He shoves me back into Two-Bit, his brown eyes sweeping the street. "Take him inside, Two-Bit. Call the cops."

XXXXX

3:45 pm

September 30, 1967

The boy's quiet. He's told me what he saw in a mumbled voice and then shut up. But it's not like all the times before, when he's been afraid and in shock. The last time I saw him was after the interrogation, huddled on the floor.

Now, there's something different about Ponyboy Curtis. This time, he's not resigned. He may have figured it out a bit late, but the boy's ready to fight.

This gives me pause to look up from my notes. We're done with the questioning but I throw this out there to see what bites. "You're hanging around with Stan Ezra."

Pony's sitting on the counter, his face red and clammy, his brother Sodapop next to him. "Yeah, I heard you called Darry." His leg is bouncing up and down like a pogo stick. "You put a tail on Stan. You gonna put one on me?"

I cock my head at his change in tone. A 15-year old smartass. "You know, I was thinking about it. Do you want one?"

His eyes challenge me. "Might make it interesting." His soft voice is strong, making its way through the gas station.

At this, the two other friends look up from their quiet conversation in the opposite corner. The darker haired one, Steve, smirks at me. Apparently, I'm still not forgiven for dragging their asses into interrogation. I can't blame him though; I'd hate my guts too.

Soda nudges him. "Knock it off."

Ponyboy smirks, something he's clearly picked up from Steve.

My radio erupts in a burst of static and I flip the volume off. "We're doin' all we can, son."

"Just butt out. You ain't doing much anyways." Ponyboy slides off the counter. "Soda can we go now?"

"Sure, kiddo," his brother murmurs. "Let's get you some lunch." Pony throws Soda a disgusted look as if he'd rather eat dirt but keeps his mouth shut.

Benji comes back from running the plate check. "Well?" I ask, turning to Benji. "Whose car is it?"

Clearing his throat, Benji drops his voice to a whisper. But it's still loud enough for the remaining people in the garage to hear. "A, um, George Morrison's."

"Is it our guy?"

"No. Um…" Benji moves closer. "Sir, Morrison's dead. The guy shot him and took the car."

XXXXX

3:18 pm

September 31, 1967

"Shit. Are you sure it was him?" Stan asks.

"Positive. He drove by and practically _waved_ at me."

"And they cops think he killed that guy?"

"Yup."

The car fills with silence. Stan's giving me a ride home where I'm catching him up on what's happened in the last 24 hours since we've talked.

"It's not gonna work," I tell him, straightening up in my seat. "Blonde's too smart. He won't show up when the cops are around."

"You gotta be shitting me." Stan flicks his cigarette out the window and glances over at me. "I was actually looking forward to it."

"Yeah, well, plans change," I mutter.

Stan grins. "Like Dylan says, 'the times they are a-changin'."

"They sure are." I watch the trees fly by as Stan takes a sharp curve. "It was a stupid idea anyways," I mumble, feeling useless. Blonde's reappearance a few days ago has made me realize he isn't going to walk blindly into a trap. I'd have to wait and so would he.

"So what's your plan now Sherlock? Wait for him to get the drop on you?" Stan turns on Henzi Street, now driving slow, taking in our neighborhood.

"I don't know. Maybe."

I try to sound noncommittal when in fact, that's exactly what I'm hoping for. Blonde's stuck around all this time. Sooner or later he's going to show up, and when he does it's better for me to surprise him than let him surprise me.

"He comes back, we'll rumble."

Stan frowns; the kind of frown that's debating between agreement and argument. "I don't know Curtis. It feels wrong. It's like burying you before you're even dead." He slows to a stop, a block away from my house.

I put my hand on the door handle. "Thanks for the vote of confidence."

"That's not what I mean." Stan bites his lip. His eyes go to my knee. "You can't even run."

"I'm not planning on it," I tell him.

XXXXX

6:49 pm

September 31, 1967

It's a full house tonight. Steve and Two-Bit have been over ever since Blonde showed up again. They're on watch, waiting, guarding. It feels like a movie and I'd laugh if it weren't my life.

Soda's outside, digging around in the garage for a football to get a game going and Two-Bit's taken it upon himself to cook dinner. He figures if he cooks, then by his contribution, he's guaranteed to eat.

Two-Bit sing-songs, "Mayonnaise, oh delicious mayonnaise, where can you be?"

"Top cabinet," I holler, barely looking up. I scribble down a math equation.

"Thanks, kid!"

There's a crash in the kitchen. I grimace, keeping my eyes on my homework. Steve reclining on the floor reaches over and turns the volume up on the TV, drowning out Two-Bit. He's watching _The Good, The Bad and The Ugly._ Clint shoots someone and Steve snorts. "And the body count rises."

I'm on my fourth algebra problem, cursing whoever invented math, when there's a loud slam from the laundry room. Darry enters the living room. "What the hell is this?" He holds out a white piece of paper in one hand, the other hand holds my dirty jeans, the pockets turned inside out.

Steve and I glance at each other, unsure as to which one of us his anger is directed at. "What'd you do now?" Steve asks.

"Shut up." I turn my befuddled glance to Darry. "What is what?"

"This," Darry says, smacking the paper down in front of me. My eyes shoot open. It's the sketch of Blonde; the dialogue bubble has never looked so unfortunate. _Come and get me, Ponyboy_, Blonde screams.

_Damn you, Stan_.

I bite my lip, thinking fast. "I drew it, after he came to the house."

Darry jabs a finger. "Who wrote _that_?"

It comes immediately: "I did."

"Bull." Darry's face is about to turn purple. "Stan wrote it, didn't he?" I shift awkwardly on the couch, my algebra book sliding off my lap. It hits the carpet with a dull thud, the math problems staring up, mocking me.

My face pales; I feel the blood slide from it. I nod. Two-Bit's mutterings about mayonnaise and ketchup halt.

I reach out and take the sketch back.

It's quiet for a moment and then Darry explodes. "God damn it, Ponyboy!" Darry snatches the paper back from my hand before I've even had a chance to retract it. "Didn't I tell you to leave it alone? Didn't I?"

I still have my hand out, the paper lingering like a ghost in my palm.

It's awe-inspiring how one minute Darry's the one to comfort me and the next minute ready to bite my head off. I had nearly forgotten how much I could still piss my oldest brother off; my talent hasn't left me after all.

"What does this mean?" He jabs again at the dialogue bubble.

My hands ball up into fists. "Nothing. It's just a joke."

"I'm not laughing, Ponyboy."

"Yeah," I say. "I can see that."

Darry stares at me, suspicious. "Whatever you're cooking up in that head of yours get rid of it. Now." His blue eyes flash. "Stay the hell away from Stan. I'm not arguing with you anymore." He makes a move to go.

"Darry," I protest. "I'm not—"

Frustrated, he wheels around. "What is it with you? You don't listen to _me_. You don't listen to Soda. You worry us to death. You think you'd want to stay out of trouble. You think you would after all this hap—"

I wince.

Darry freezes, realizing his mistake.

Steve sits up, his eyes on me. "Darry…"

It shouldn't hurt because Darry doesn't mean it. Regret crosses his face as quickly as the anger leaves it. He's irritated and upset and it makes sense he'd go off.

But still, his words sting. Because I really don't see how taking the short cut through Lake Elmo was my fault.

The back door slams. "The big one's yelling," Two-Bit says to Sodapop before he can ask what's going in.

Darry closes his eyes for a moment, putting a hand to his head. He takes a breath. "Pony, I shouldn't have said that." He has more to say but can't find the words; his mouth flaps open like a fish.

"It's ok, Dar."

Mute, he nods, handing me back the sketch. I crumple it into a ball and toss it. It sails through the air, landing in the middle of the floor.

XXXXX

Review please!!


	14. Chapter 14

OK. Not the last chapter. I couldn't wrap it up in one. One more to go.

XXXXX

5:13 am

October 1, 1967

"Why didn't you meet me?" she says.

"You were followed," Blonde barks. "Use your head once in a while." He presses a hand against his swollen but healing lip. The right side of his face is still a mess. Walking to the window, Blonde peers through the closed blinds. The night is dark and windy.

"I'm sorry."

Blonde shrugs in the darkness of his motel room. "It's cool. I got a game cooked up anyways." He chuckles.

"You can't hurt him," Hannah moans. "You promised me." Suddenly, she flares up. "It was supposed to be easy, damn it. And you screwed it all up!"

Rage courses through Blonde. "Relax. I wasn't planning on hurting your kid. And I ain't gonna hurt him now either. But you better watch that fucking mouth of yours."

When she speaks again, it's in that same penitent tone he remembers. "Don left me. They're going to figure it out. It's only a matter of time," she prophesies.

"Shut up about that," Blonde snaps. "You let me handle this. Just shut up."

Hannah's voice is small over the telephone line. "Can't you drop it? Just go away and we'll forget this. Please Roger."

Blonde – better known as Roger – sighs. He wishes he could drop this. He knows the cops are sniffing at his heels. But the boy's seen his face and Roger finds himself having fun. He grabs a pair of keys from his pocket, rolling them around in his hand.

"Please don't mean a thing to me."

XXXXX

10:56 am

October 1, 1967

Stan jogs up to me. His face is flushed and he's breathing heavily. "Curtis," he says above the ring of the bell, herding students to their classes. He looks nauseous.

I take in his sweaty, breathless appearance. "You running a race today, Stan?" I grab my history book and slam my locker. I look down at his loafers. "You ain't gonna get too far in those."

He doesn't laugh.

My grin fades at his serious expression. His eyes are solemn. "What's going on?"

"His name is Roger."

"Who?"

"_Blonde_." Then Stan holds up a photo. Hannah Ezra is twenty years younger, smiling and clinging to a guy. It's Blonde – now known as Roger - with those same cold eyes and smile. He's laughing and has his arm around Hannah. But his stare is distant, angry.

I don't take the photo only stare at it. I take a step back. "Where'd you get that?" My voice is a whisper.

"You know how I said I knew the face but didn't know it."

I manage a nod, swallowing the lump in my throat. The kidnapping rushes back to meet me but I shove it away and try to focus.

"Well, my mom was on the phone this morning. Early. She was talking to him again and I didn't hear much but I heard her call him Roger. Then, I remembered she has a brother named _Roger_." I raise an eyebrow.

Stan hurries on. "I've never met him. I don't know the details but from what I heard he was in trouble with the law and my dad didn't want her to have contact. They didn't talk about it." Stan snorts. "Which would explain a lot."

"But she has _this_ up on the fireplace." He shows me the photo again. "I've been passing it by for 10 years," he smacks the photo against the locker, "and _that's_ where I've seen Blonde."

"We have to tell Jessup."

Stan nods. "I know. I was on my way."

"I'm going with y—"

_Whap_. I'm slammed back against the locker, the back of my head hitting the metal. The history book falls out of my arms and slaps the ground.

"God damn you, Travis," Stan says. "We're talking here!"

Collecting my bearings, I see Stan face-to-face with Travis Jensen, a member of Stan's pack of Socs. He has a case of bad acne and clearly an anger management problem.

Travis sneers at him. "Hanging out with Greasers these days, Stan my man?" He gives Stan a small shove.

Stan knocks Travis's hands away, his face still red, but now it's not from his jog. "Screw you." He's anxious to get away and call Jessup. He tucks the photo in his back pocket.

"At least he finally stopped slumming," I say to Travis, taking a step forward.

Travis's hand comes out. _Whap_. The locker strikes me square in the back again, knocking the air out of me. Coughing, I double over, my hands on my knees.

Travis's voice floats above me. "You still haven't learned that the last Soc to mess with this dirty Grease ended up knifed?"

"What's your goddamned problem?" Stan says. His fists are clenched at his side. A door cracks down the hall and a 12th grader sticks her head out from the class. Seeing us, her eyes widen and she darts back in. Fights aren't that uncommon and I'm wondering how long she'll let it go before telling a teacher.

Travis's eyes flash. "My problem, Stan the man, is that you act like you owe this piece of shit something."

I straighten up and Travis looks at me and then back to Stan. "So he took one for you. Big deal. He ain't your buddy. In fact, he did you a _fuckin'_ favor."

"I got your favor," Stan says, launching himself at Travis. He shoves Travis into the opposite wall of lockers. They rattle like thunder. Disentangling, Travis elbows Stan in the nose, a sharp crack that makes me wince.

"Aw, shit!" Stan screams, clutching his nose. Bright red begins to stream from it. The photo is knocked out of his pocket and flutters to the floor.

Travis comes at me again. I dodge his punch, going under his arm and I seize the photo. Travis is quick and he catches me across the back with his fist. I hit the floor, my knee getting jarred in the process. I suck in air, feeling my hand tighten around the photo.

A shout fills the hall and the voice stands out: Two-Bit.

Travis laughs and I'm up. I eye my target and as if I'm scooping up one of Darry's football passes, I grab my fallen history textbook and twist around in time to connect the book with Travis's incoming face.

_Whap. _

Travis falls against the lockers, cursing a stream of obscenities.

"Damn," Stan says. His voice is nasally. "You really like hitting people in the face."

He glares down at a moaning Travis. "Asshole," he says, kicking him in the side.

I hold up the book, a smile on my face. "You really should study more, _Stan the man_." I pass him the photo where he puts it in his back pocket once more.

Sneakers clop the ground and Two-Bit skids to a stop. "Pone? You ok? You hurt, bleeding anywhere, knife wound, gunshot?" He gives me a quick spin, checking me over.

"I'm dizzy enough, Two-Bit. Knock it off."

Two-Bit's eyes dart around the _soon-to-be-littered-with-teachers_ hall. He exhales. "Good, great, grand. You're in one piece." He grabs my hand and gives me a tug. "Let's get the hell out of here. The last thing you need is to be expelled."

Two-Bit looks at me. "Hell, that's the last thing _I_ need."

XXXXXX

11:05 am

October 1, 1967

Stan follows us outside into the parking lot. "How's your nose?" I ask. Two-Bit lingers by his truck, watching us. He pulls out his switchblade and begins trimming his nails.

"I'll live." Stan touches it gingerly. "Jesus, talk about getting sidetracked."

He takes a closer step, raising his eyebrows. "At least you got some practice with that right hook of yours, Curtis. Just in case."

A light goes off in my head. "Yeah," I say. "Remind me to thank Travis later."

"Ponyboy," Two-Bit calls out. "Let's go. Now." A door slams and the truck rumbles to life. Two-Bit honks. I look at Stan. I had wanted to go with him but now it looks like Two-Bit's going to have his way.

Stan chuckles. "Looks like our friends are on the same page."

"At least mine fight fair." I rub the back of my neck.

He exhales a loud gust of air and runs both hands through his slicked back hair. "Christ, I can't believe I'm doing this."

"Stan, if your mom is involved, Jessup will try and help her."

"I hope so. I'll let you know what happens." Stan shoots me a last glance and walks away toward his dad's Porsche, patting the back of his pocket to make sure the photo is still there.

XXXXX

11:11 am

October 1, 1967

Two-Bit shifts gears. Hard. They grind together. He glances at me from the corner of his eye. "You're lucky you don't have a scratch on you. That Jensen prick could have beaten the snot out of you."

"He didn't, did he?"

"That doesn't matter." A smile plays on his lips as Two-Bit struggles to be responsible and not go through the play-by-play of the fight.

Two-Bit sighs, smoothing his thumb down a long sideburn. "Pony, do you know how much hell Darry would have raised if you came home with a black eye?" He chuckles. "The next county would have heard it. Dogs would have howled. Your roof would have collapsed."

I give a small laugh and rest my head against the cool windowpane. "Good thing Darry has experience in that field."

"And what's all that with you and Stan? Darry told you—"

"Yeah, I know what he said," I snap. Two-Bit's quiet and I try again. I stare at my sneakers, finally having a chance to take in the news Stan has told me. I announce it as much as to myself as to Two-Bit. "It's Stan's uncle."

"What is?"

"The guy who…kidnapped me. Stan found out today. He's going to the cops right now."

His head jerks over. Two-Bit looks as if I've told him beer's been banned and that blondes don't exist. "I don't believe it." He slows at a stop sign, flicking his blinker on to take a right.

"I sure hope they catch the bastard. Catch him and fry him." His knuckles are white around the steering wheel.

"This whole thing is sure messed up," I say with frustration. "Stan has to rat out his mom, who knows if she'll talk and I still don't even know why this happened."

I look down at my hands, my face hot. "Glory, Two-Bit. I sure wish I would've taken that ride when you offered it." There's a hitch in my chest I haven't felt in a while.

"Hey," Two-Bit says, turning onto my street. "It's not your fault. Don't go back to thinkin' like that."

"Yeah, I know. I just can't help replaying the 'what-ifs'…"

"Should, woulda, coulda," he says. "That ain't gonna help you, Ponyboy." Two-Bit smiles and breaks into a low chuckle. "What you need is a nice—"

"Ho-ly crap." I sit up straight, straining against the seatbelt. "Two-Bit. Stop the car." He keeps driving. I pound the dash. "Two-Bit, stop it!"

He punches the breaks and we jolt forward. Slowly, he turns his head. "Kid. You're gonna give me a heart attack before I'm 25."

I point out towards the street, his eyes following my finger. The stolen Chevy, the late George Morrison's, is parked in the driveway of our house. It's right outside the garage, waiting patiently. The license plate has been removed.

"Blonde's here."

Two-Bit pales. "That's the car?"

I put my hand on the door handle.

"Oh no, you don't." Two-Bit's hand shoots out, latching onto my sleeve.

"But if he's here…if Darry and Soda…" I gape at my house.

Two-Bit thinks a moment and then decides. "I'll go. Stay here."

My hand doesn't move from the door handle. He gives me a look and doesn't release my sleeve. "I ain't foolin' kid. You sit. Your. Ass. Here."

"But—"

"Ponyboy," Two-Bit hisses, "your mother never spanked you enough as a child. Now shut up and listen to me."

"Ok," I agree. I lick my dry lips. He drops my sleeve.

Two-Bit unbuckles his seat belt and slides out of the cab. His stocky frame leans in the doorframe, his arms spread across the top of his truck. "Pone," he says, "If I holler, you drive off. Just get goin'." His breath is steamy in the chilly air.

I shake my head. "I ain't leaving. What're you gonna do?"

"Aw, I'll think of something."

"Cracking jokes don't count, Two-Bit."

"Don't knock the jokes, kid," he says and I hear his switchblade flick open. "They've saved many a life." Then, he's gone.

I slide behind the driver's seat, clutching the steering wheel and watching Two-Bit cross the street. The car looms before Two-Bit, black and beckoning. For being nervous, he sure doesn't show it. I think I've seen him more uncomfortable in a suit. He strolls up like it's a chick at a bar.

My heart drums. I hear it pumping in my ears; I taste it in my teeth. I hold my breath, resisting the urge to squeeze my eyes shut. I'm also resisting the urge to run after my friend. I feel like the lowest form of life on the planet; I'm a Greaser and I'm letting my friend walk into something for me. I keep expecting Blonde to leap from the shadows or run out of the house.

Ten feet away from the car, Two-Bit stops. Then, he darts over to the Chevy, leaning inside its open window. He grabs something and wiggles out. He looks down at the thing in his hands.

This time I open the door and tumble out. My feet crunch the gravel as I run towards Two-Bit.

Two-Bit glances up, his eyes wide with surprise. His face is the color of ash. He sticks an arm out, motioning me to stop. "Pony, I told you to stay in the truck."

"What's that?"

"Pony…"

It's a piece of paper. My arm darts out and I grab the paper. Two-Bit's fast too; he grips my wrist in a stranglehold. "Don't, kid."

It's Pandora's Box. Ignoring him, I flip it over. I take it all in and then drop the paper as if I've been stung. The paper glides to the gravel road. It lands face up.

It's the drawing; the one I had tossed away in the house. Printed beneath the dialogue bubble _Come and get me, Ponyboy_ is another. _You're close. But I'm closer_.

That's it. The car's empty.

"C'mon." Two-Bit tries to push me away. Burning inside, I stand there letting dizziness and anger and disbelief consume my thoughts. My brain is moving in slow motion, black and white.

"C'mon," Two-Bit says again. He pulls me up on our lawn, away from the car. He gently slaps my face. "Wake the hell up." His voice is worried, strained.

The world comes back into focus; colors and sounds now at full throttle. I bite the inside of my mouth and taste blood. "I'm awake."

XXXXX

Review please! Pardon typos.


	15. Chapter 15

Last chapter. Cursing and violence involved. Of course.

Please review. Pardon typos.

XXXXXX

Another tricky little gun giving solace to the one  
That will never see the sunshine  
Another inch of your life sacrificed for your brother  
In the nick of time

-Jack White and Alicia Keyes

XXXXXX

1:29 pm

October 1, 1967

They're both in custody. Stan's in his father's, Hannah Ezra's in mine.

She sits at the table in Interrogation Room B, a frail and fragile thing. Long brown hair drips down her face. Hannah picks at her nails until they bleed. "I didn't mean for this to happen," she murmurs. "I just thought I owed it to Roger."

I frown at her from across the room. "How? By letting him kidnap your son?" Benji paces behind her.

She buries her face in her hands, muffling her words. "It was just to get Don to pay him ransom. He needed the money. He was gonna give him back." My stomach twists. Hannah says this like Stan's an animal he was borrowing or something he can return to the store.

When she looks up her eyes are wild. "Don owed it to him. I love my brother; he took care of me. I couldn't just…forget him."

"Hannah, he didn't exactly turn into a model citizen," Benji says.

Twenty years ago, Don Ezra put a man named Roger Chopinski behind bars for attempted murder. When he did this he was engaged to a Hannah Chopinski. Hannah stood by Don. But she also stood by Roger. Hannah had a crazy definition of loyalty.

"He was going to let Stan go."

"You believe that?" Benji raises an eyebrow.

"I do."

"What about Ponyboy Curtis?" I ask. "You didn't feel the need to come forward after Roger kidnapped him?"

She swallows. "I didn't want to get in trouble."

I sigh. "Believe me, you're in worse trouble now than you would have been had you said something."

She drums her nails on the table and whispers, "I didn't think he'd try to kill the boy. But he got away." She winces. "Roger couldn't stand that. Then you and Stan started poking around…Stan's smart…I didn't want him to find out that I—" Her voice cracks.

"You wanted Roger gone." She nods. I walk the room and sit down across from her. "Hannah. Where is he?"

Blonde's still in town. Twenty minutes after Stan had given me his statement Benji had walked into my office with a dazed expression. He told me that Ponyboy Curtis had found the Chevy sitting in his driveway, a note sitting inside.

She begins to cry. "I wanted them both. Don and Roger. But now I don't have anyone." I'm not kind enough to tell her she's wrong.

"Hannah," I say, impatient, "Where is he?"

"I don't know."

"Yes, you do."

Hannah sniffs but has stopped crying. A long trail of snot drips from her nose.

"He'd give you up," Benji tells her. "In an instant."

I place a pack of cigarettes on the table, sliding them on the smooth tin surface. "It could help you with your sentencing." I don't care if it does or doesn't. I just want Roger's location and I'll get it any way I can.

There's a long pause as she thinks. She manages to wipe the snot on her sleeve and she brushes a piece of lank hair from her eyes. "He's staying in an apartment downtown. Motel Capri, third floor. Room 306."

XXXXXX

4:10 pm

October 1, 1967

Two-Bit and Ponyboy are on the porch when Steve and I pull up to the house. Two-Bit waves at us and takes a sip of beer. I look at the driveway where the Chevy had sat; Darry's truck fills its space.

I had gotten the call at the DX four hours ago from Darry with the news of the Chevy's reappearance and Blonde's identity. I had my coat half-on, Steve's keys in my hands when my boss told that if we left, we could leave the job too.

"Finally flew the coop?" Two-Bit hoots as we climb out of Steve's truck.

Steve flips him off. "Some of us got jobs, Two-Bit."

I cross the yard quickly and climb the porch steps. Ponyboy's leaning against the railing. "Hey kiddo."

"Hey Sodapop." His face is gray but his eyes are bright. "I take it you heard the news?"

"Yeah, I heard the good and the bad. You ok?" I reach out and touch his arm, giving it a squeeze. He nods, his eyes flickering to the screen door. I follow his gaze. Through the netted screen I can see Darry on the phone.

"They might have found him," Pony offers what Darry has already told me. His voice is uncertain. "Blonde – Roger – whoever."

"Cops decided to start working for once?" Steve snorts. "Coffee and donuts don't hold their attention anymore?"

I raise an eyebrow. "Wow, Stevie, you really hold a grudge don't you?"

Ponyboy says, "Stan's mom told the cops where he was hiding out. Everyone's a rat." He gives a mirthless laugh, folding his arms across his chest.

"Hey wait," Two-Bit drawls, "you missed the most important part of the story: how I saved the day." A bit of life flickers into Two-Bit. He takes a long gulp from his beer and burps. "You really shoulda seen it."

"Yeah, you really should have," Ponyboy echoes. He gives Two-Bit a sideways smile and bats Two-Bit's arm away before it can ruffle his hair.

"It was something to make James Bond jealous," Two-Bit narrates. "A stolen car in the driveway, the kid listening for once," He points at Pony who scowls. "…And me, Two-Bit Mathews perfecting my spy moves." Two-Bit's arm comes down in a karate chop and he ducks and bobs around Steve.

"What do you want a medal?" Steve snaps. "Because you're embarrassing the shit out of me with those moves."

"No," Two-Bit says, still dancing around Steve. "Just constant admiration."

Darry props the screen door open. He looks at me and then Ponyboy. "I'm picking you up from school tomorrow at three. They want you to verify the photograph in person and give a statement." Ponyboy nods.

Darry asks, "Soda, can you meet us there?"

"Sure, Darry. Not a problem," I say at the exact same time as Steve snorts, "Good luck getting our prick of a boss to let you go."

Darry's pale. He swallows, looking like he wants to say something else.

Ponyboy notices too. "Out with it Dar," I say.

"Pony…" Darry begins, coming out onto the porch. Ponyboy braces himself for whatever's coming. He moves closer to me, one hand on the railing.

"Stan's mom got two years in prison."

XXXXXX

3:01 pm

October 2, 1967

I pull out of the school parking lot. I take a right and begin the drive downtown. The road leading out of the school follows the edge of Lake Elmo's woods. Ponyboy watches them from his window. The brown woods combined with the gray afternoon create a dreary combination.

"How's Stan doing?" I ask.

Pony looks at me as if I'm an idiot. "He wasn't in school."

"Jessup said he was with his dad," I offer. "You'll see him today."

"He's gonna hate me," Ponyboy says with a sigh. "I would."

I sneak a sideways look at his resigned face. "He won't. Even if he does it's not your fault."

He shakes his head. "I can't believe she got two years."

"What about you?" I ask, frowning. "You got a lot worse than that."

Ponyboy grins. "So do you. You have to put up with me."

Amused, I give him a smile. "You ain't that bad. At least you don't dance around like an orangutan like Two-Bit. And you pick up your shoes unlike another brother I won't mention."

Ponyboy laughs and reaches forward to fiddle with the radio. He bypasses the Beatles, Elvis Presley, finally settling on a Bob Dylan song. Dylan's mellow voice fills the truck.

Pony's eyes keep darting to the mirror on his passenger side. Suddenly, he's squirming around in his seat. Unsnapping his seat belt, Pony gets up on his knees, twisting around to look out the back window. He leans forward, squinting.

"What're you doing?" I ask.

"Just…seeing…something…" he mumbles.

I hit a patch of ice and the truck swerves. Ponyboy rocks in his crouched position, grabbing onto the back of the seat for support.

"Hey," I glance at him out of the corner of my eye. "Sit down. Put your seatbelt back on. It's slick out."

"Darry," he says, "the car behind us is coming up awfully fast."

I check my rearview mirror. He's right. The car is almost on the tail end of my truck. Speeding up, I put my turn signal on and move into the right lane, thinking the driver wants to pass me. The car follows me.

Intuition flips my stomach over. My hands clench the steering wheel. "Pony," I say, seeing what's coming. "Buckle up now."

He twists half-way around to stare at me. He looks ill. "Darry, you don't think that's—"

The incoming hit is a punch to the ribs. The truck shakes and Ponyboy goes flying back against the dash.

Reflexes kicking in, my arm darts out to catch my brother by his forearm. I wince as Pony's skull hits the dash with a sickening crack. "Pone!" The truck swerves again as I try to keep my grip on my brother and on the steering wheel.

I pull him back into the seat. "God damn it. You okay? Kiddo?" He nods without speaking and rests his forehead in his palm.

Another jolt hits us. Ponyboy braces himself against the window. The truck swerves onto the shoulder of the road but I steady it pulling it back into the lane. "Crazy bastard!" I punch my horn and the brake, speeding up to 70 miles per hour.

Pony's voice is low in my ear. "Darry, it's Blonde."

Grim, I say, "I know." I grit my teeth, trying to concentrate on getting us out of this mess. I fly around a curve, the woods of Lake Elmo blurring into a green and brown haze.

The car advances again, this time hitting its mark. Its front bumper hits my truck's back wheels with a crunching noise. "Oh shit!" Ponyboy hollers. There's a sound of burning rubber as my truck zig-zags across the road.

I glance over at my wide-eyed brother. His face is white. "Hold on, kiddo!" I twist the wheel, straining against its resistance but it's useless. It's out of control. The truck veers off the road and onto the shoulder. Gravel and sparks fly up around us as we plummet down into the ditch.

A tree rests at the bottom of the ditch and I know where the nose of the truck is going to make its final resting place. My stomach flips, both my brother's faces flashing before me. Then, the last thing I see is Ponyboy squeezing his eyes shut, waiting for impact. Glass shatters, there's a loud popping noise and it goes dark.

XXXXXX

3:11 pm

October 2, 1967

It's quiet. The kind of quiet you only hear in hospitals and when people are trying to keep secrets. Whispered and avoidant.

Something wet is dripping down my face. I blink and when I open my eyes its dim. I can make out the remnants of Darry's truck through the choking smoke. There's glass in my lashes; I can feel the tiny shattered pieces hitting my eyelids. I brush a hand down my face, wiping away the wetness and the glass.

I'm on the floor of the truck, wedged up against the door and the caved in dash. It takes me a few minutes but I finally manage to pull myself into a sitting position. I touch the back of my head. My hand comes back bloody.

The world sways, the planets align and I struggle to control my grip on consciousness.

From my skewed position on the floor, I can tell that truck's on a severe decline. My brain makes an effort to remember what has happened…

The driver. I remember Darry and go numb. Afraid, I put a hand out and pull myself up on the front seat. A large tree dissects the front of the truck. The windshield is splintered. Darry's truck is totaled.

I kneel next to my brother. His eyes are shut, head tilted back against the head rest. He has a cut above his right eyebrow.

I lean across him and with a shaky hand rest two fingers against his throat. I wait. It's the longest wait of my life.

I laugh with relief, veering on the edge of manic. Darry's beat is strong, pumping away. He's breathing.

"Darry." My voice is loud in the quiet. I shake his shoulder. "Darry. Wake up."

Above us, on the road, a car door slams. "Darry. Come on!" I urge. "We have to get outta here." I shake him again but it's useless. He's out like a light.

I debate staying but know we won't have a chance if we're cornered. I try and shove the door open but it sticks. I unroll the window, using one hand to push it down faster. Climbing out, I fall to my knees, choking on the exhaust.

I scramble up and wait for Blonde's footsteps to get closer. When they do I take off into a woozy run, crashing through the trees and leaves with louder than necessary force. _Hear me, Blonde_, I think. _Hear me and leave Darry alone._

XXXXX

3:35 pm

October 2, 1967

Branches and twigs scratch me as I run through the woods of Lake Elmo. The leaves crunch beneath my shoes. Breathless, I stop mid-run, listening. I'm right back where I started. Except this time I know who's after me. I take a gulp of air and am off again.

It's a surprise when it happens. Halfway down into the ravine, Blonde clotheslines me. His arm comes straight out, catching me in the chest and knocking me over. I'm still dizzy from the car accident and lay there blinking at the sky.

"Thought you could hide?" Blonde sneers, standing above me, his mangled face eager twisted into a grin. Hate not fear surges through my body. I remember his eyes all too well.

He's about to fall on me when I kick him in the stomach with my foot. Hard. He stumbles backward, gasping for air. I roll away from him and am on my feet, keeping my body loose and ready to move.

"Who's hiding, asshole? From what I remember you're the one hiding from the fuzz, _Roger_."

Blonde's eyes cloud. "You're still a fuckin' smartass." He's lightening fast. Piercing pain rips through my shoulder and side as he strikes me. I go down on one knee, cringing. I take a lesson from Travis Jensen and whip around, elbowing Blonde in the nose. There's a crunching sound of bone and I smile as Blonde begins screaming.

I watch him a moment and then begin to run. My knee gives me no pain and I fall into the easy rhythm of what I love to do. Wind whips my face; I dodge a tree branch, splash through a small stream and duck behind a large rock.

I'm not stupid. Blonde has more than fists up his sleeve. Those, I can work with. Blades or a heater I ain't ready for.

Shielded by the rock and the tall pine trees, I peer out to see Blonde shuffling through the wooded forest. His nose is smashed in. Again. That's definitely not going to earn me any points.

"Oh Ponyboy…" he taunts. "Come out, come out, wherever you are…"

I remain silent, still, pressing a hand to my mouth just in case. I just need to make it back up to the road. I glance behind me, wondering whether or not to take off again.

There's another crashing through the woods and I freeze. Wide-eyed, I turn back to see Blonde drop back between two trees. He chuckles.

"Ponyboy!" Darry yells. It's a desperate-kind of yell, the kind that, in normal situations, would make me obey. This however, doesn't qualify as normal.

Leaves crunch, twigs snap. "Pony, where are you?"

I squeeze my eyes shut. Blonde's hovering opposite me, unaware of my location. But I see his smile. He's waiting for me to give myself away so he can have a go at one of us.

Damned if I'm going to put my brother in this position.

I stay silent, waiting. I kneel in the familiar crouching position I use on the track. My fingers brush the ground, my knees ready to launch me up.

"Pone?" Darry's voice keeps getting closer. "Kiddo?" he hollers. Finally I have my brother in my sights. He crosses between the trees, limping slightly. The cut above his eyebrow has dried to a fine trail of blood. He cups his hands around his mouth. "Ponyboy Curtis!"

_Go away, Darry. Just go away_.

Darry begins to retreat, his yells getting fainter. I drop my head and breathe, thankful he's okay. A few minutes pass.

Roger begins to whisper, "I'm gonna git ya. You can't hide." I cock my head, thinking I'm imagining his voice getting closer. When I look up again he's not between the trees.

A branch cracks at my back.

I explode off the ground, ripping through the trees and stumbling over logs. "Shit!" I fall, eating a mouthful of dirt. I'm nearly up again and running but before I have a good start Roger pummels into me.

We slam the earth, rolling and twisting on the ground. He punches me in the face. My head snaps back and I see black. Blonde jumps up and kicks me in the side, the stomach. I pull myself into a fetal position trying to shield what I can.

My foot lashes out aiming for Blonde's left knee. It's my mistake, I'm too slow; I don't hit the kneecap but graze the side of his thigh. Blonde's mangled features twist into a grin.

"Nice try."

"Nice face."

I'm on my back and Blonde's suddenly on top of me. Panic crosses me as I remember my last night in the cabin. Blonde's hands around my throat. But that was another time and the panic disintegrates into stubbornness. I'm not going out like this.

I hear the flick of a blade. "Ready for this?"

I twist my hips trying to get out from under him. Managing to wriggle out some, I come up swinging; my fist hits Roger across the jaw. The blade flies out of his hand, landing five feet away.

I barely manage "Darry!" before something hard and heavy hits the side of my head. There's a metallic clanging noise in my ears and I go down like an anchor, into the cushion of leaves. Warmth begins to spread around me. Disoriented, I can only lie there.

Blonde stands up, tossing the rock over his left shoulder. It hits the ground with a thud, lying among leaves and other rubble. Blonde scoops up the knife and gives me a knowing grin.

All of a sudden, Darry barrels through the trees. He rushes Blonde, clubbing him across the face with his fist. Darry drops Blonde like he's a bag of lumber. Pulling Blonde back up, Darry delivers a crushing blow to Blonde's ribs.

"Where's my brother?"

Blonde can't answer, choking on his blood-filled mouth. The air fills with the sound of approaching sirens.

"Where the hell is Ponyboy?" Darry yells. Kneeling down, Darry grips Blonde's shirt, jerking him up to face him. Darry hits him in the throat and Blonde starts to gag. "Don't make me kill you."

I roll onto my side, trying to push myself up. "Darry, over here…"

Darry's head snaps over to meet my eyes. He leaves Blonde, rushing over.

"Ponyboy…" Crouching down, Darry's hands hover above me, unsure as to what to touch first. Seeing the blood, he touches my hand. "What's this from?"

"Darry," I tell him as he helps me sit up. "Blonde has a blade."

Surprised, Darry glances up, eyeing Blonde who's twisting on the ground, still coughing and moaning. He hesitates. "Pony, the blood—"

"My head met a rock."

Darry reaches around, dipping a hand to touch the back of my head. He draws it out and it's black. Darry looks at it and then at me. "Don't go to sleep."

He begins taking off his jacket when I notice Blonde's quiet. In fact, Blonde's coming toward us, knife held beside him. I hear shouts somewhere higher in the woods and know Blonde's getting desperate. The cops are close.

"Darry!"

Darry can't move fast because he's caught twisted up in his jacket. "Shit," he swears, straightening up. I stumble up beside him and Darry sticks an arm out, shielding me.

Blonde laughs. "Aw, ain't this sweet." He lunges forward.

Darry tries to move me out of the way but Blonde darts the opposite direction, arcing a fist toward Darry's jaw. It's a dull blow but Darry stumbles back, his feet catching on a large log, leaving me to face Blonde.

The blade slices through the air and before I can jump back it cuts the front of my shirt, piercing through the skin. Blonde drags a cut starting at my breast bone and slicing clear down to my navel. A searing, stinging pain hits my chest. Blood begins to bead the surface of my shirt.

Stunned, I look at Blonde, my hands gripping my stomach. I sink to my knees, saying the first words that come to mind: "You asshole."

Blonde grins and raises the knife. As the blade flashes down once more, Darry comes up swinging a tree log as large as a 2x4. "I warned you once," Darry says. The log clocks Blonde in the face, propelling him backwards.

A strange sense of déjà vu fills me. Before I see it, I know what will happen. Darry and I watch as Blonde falls toward the ground, his skull cracking the rock he had used on me and then tossed away. He's quiet; his unblinking eyes staring at the sky.

Wincing, I turn away.

"Ponyboy, Ponyboy…" Darry's next to me, gathering me up, hugging me to his chest. His heart pumps with a vengeance, his strong arms tightening like a vice. "Thank God, you're all right. Thank God…"

XXXXXX

4:32 pm

October 2, 1967

Darry's talking to Jessup and another detective while I'm relegated to sitting in the back of an ambulance; its doors thrown wide open in the dimming sun. Darry and the cops are gathered in a small circle on the road, talking in hushed tones. I can't hear them fully but do catch the words "self-defense" and "open and shut". Darry's eyes keep flickering to me and I hope this doesn't end with my brother being pushed into the back of a cop car.

The daze of the day begins to sink in. I watch Darry, calm and polite, tell his story. I've already given my statement; right before Blonde was loaded up in body bag and right after Darry finished yelling at me not to take a nap.

Darry points at the busted truck in the ditch. The officers nod.

Darry killed a man for me. I never doubted my brother but now I know his determination. The finality of everything – of Blonde, of what I saw, of how much Darry would do – hits me hard. I shudder and watch my hands. Only this time, they're not shaking.

Lisa Paillard wraps presses the final patch of gaze against my navel, taping it down. I jump, shocked back into the present. "There," she says. "You're lucky it's just a surface cut. It will heal up but you might have a small scar."

"Now your head," she continues, "is what you really need to watch." She _tsks_, flashing a light into my eyes. "You're eyes are so green," she murmurs. Lisa waits a minute and then clicks the light off. "Too many concussions, Ponyboy."

"Don't I know it," Darry says, appearing next to us. He has a Band-Aid above his eyebrow. "You feel okay, kiddo?" He sits next to me and puts an arm around my shoulder. Darry sighs, his voice tight. "I don't know what looks worse, you or the truck."

"Keep him awake for 24 hours," Lisa instructs. "Any nausea, blurred vision, bring him in." She looks at me. "And don't scratch those stitches." She glances back to Darry. "Are you sure you don't want to go to the hospital?"

"No…I'm gonna take him home," Darry says. Anxious to get away, I nod and begin pulling Darry's jacket on. My shirt's shredded.

"We can go?" I ask him.

Darry gives a quick nod. "We can go."

Jessup walks over, he's smiling. "Well, Ponyboy," Jessup greets me, "looks like you won't be seeing the likes of me anytime soon."

"Yeah," I say. "Remind me not to rob any banks."

Jessup chuckles and turns to Darry. "Thanks for your cooperation and patience." He puts a hand out.

Darry takes it. "Thanks for your help, Detective." He helps me stand and I make it to wobbly legs.

"Steve and Soda are on their way," Darry says as we move away from the others. He looks down into the ditch. "Seeing as how we don't have a ride anymore."

"Hey," Darry says, noticing my silence. "Are you sure you're okay?" He puts both hands out and stops me. "Ponyboy."

Knowing he's thinking about marching me right back to the ambulance, I answer quickly. "Darry…are you sorry you did it?"

He doesn't bat an eye. "No. And I'll never be sorry." Darry lowers his blue eyes, cupping a hand around my bicep. "Kiddo, I meant it from day one. When he first took you."

I swallow the lump in my throat. "Thanks, Darry."

He gives me a look saying thanks isn't needed but ruffles my hair nonetheless. Darry walks a few paces into the road, impatient, searching for Steve and Soda. I place a hand on my chest, feeling the padding of the gauze.

I'll have a scar. But Blonde's dead and my hands don't shake. I shield my eyes against the dying sunlight and wait for tomorrow to come.

XXXXXX

Finally, it's over!!

Hope you enjoyed. Please review.


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